


Mirroring You

by Breanna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon - TV, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 45,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breanna/pseuds/Breanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little moments in time when Sherlock and John unknowingly copy each other, despite their distance. </p><p>Post Reichenbach, one shots, slightly connected. Suggestions welcome! (no slash)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock? Tea's ready!" John brought the tray into the living room and poured two cups. John sat and took his cup, staring at Sherlock's for a long time. No hand came to pick it up, or to complain that it wasn't the " _imported Indian tea I've made special adjustments to, increasing the caffeine and hiding the flavor of the drug I added._ " John had long ago learned not to drink any of Sherlock's tea, but to stick to his own simple flavors.

But where was Sherlock? It wasn't like him to miss tea, even if he was in the middle of a case. "Sherlock? You alright?" Only silence met his question and John sighed, rubbing his eyes. Of course. John wasn't in 221B and Sherlock was dead, but every day John went through the same motions, expecting that someday he would receive an answer. Wasn't that insanity?

* * *

"John? Where's my tea?" Sherlock threw his coat in a chair and started poking at one of his many experiments. Molly walked in and handed Sherlock a cup of tea.

"Thank you, John."

"Molly."

Sherlock nodded and took a sip, not registering her words. He made a face. "John! This isn't my tea! It's the Italian now, not the Indian. Actually, it hasn't been the Indian for a while. I already finished the tests on that one. Where'd you find this?" He peered into the cup as if he could deduce it's secrets.

"Sherlock, it's Molly."

"Hello, Molly. Can you bring this to John please? He made me the wrong tea." Sherlock held up the cup and then went back to his experiment, eyes darting over lists of equations and numbers.

Molly sighed. He was obviously absorbed in his work. When Sherlock was still living with John she'd heard about this often. John said that Sherlock often held conversations without realizing his flatmate was missing. "Sherlock!" He looked up at her and finally focused on his surroundings. She still had the teacup.

Sherlock blinked. "Molly. You brought me tea." She nodded. "Thank you." He took it back and gave a tight smile. "I thought John made it, didn't I?"

She nodded again. "It's fine, Sherlock. You were busy."

"I should have paid attention. I am sorry, Molly." His mouth twisted around the words. He'd had to learn to modulate his tone when around Molly; John had put up with a lot from him.

"It's forgotten." Molly smiled and touched his shoulder before slipped back out the door. It was the same routine every day.

**A/N- Don't worry, they will get a bit longer. Just getting my stride :)**


	2. Chapter 2

"Natural redhead, discolored tongue, pupils constricted, blue around lips and fingernails. Classic signs of a heroine overdose." John looked over at Lestrade for conformation.

"The door was locked from the inside, suggesting suicide, but there is no syringe on the body. There is no syringe anywhere in the flat."

John frowned. "Is it possible they took a hit earlier, came back, and didn't realize they overdosed?" 

Lestrade shook his head. "There was a note. Rather cryptic." He handed it over.

"Hmm…" John studied the neat handwriting. "What do you think, Sher-?" John stopped and closed his eyes. Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder. There was no need for words.

* * *

"Pit bull attack, seemingly random, in a back alley. Dog attacks reported in the area previously. Office worker by his clothes, dead for three hours." Sherlock studied the body. "John? Back me up?" Only silence answered him. "John?" Sherlock looked up absentmindedly.

"It's Molly, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes of course." Sherlock frowned and shook his head, as if shaking away cobwebs. "Yes…right. The dog is not a stray; it is a fighter dog. The owner set the dog on the man because he owed money. You can see were the pocket was ripped when the man hurried to grab the wallet…" Sherlock almost tripped over his words in his blistering delivery.

Molly winced, sensing the pain beneath the deduction, even if Sherlock would never admit it. Even after so long, Sherlock still forgot that his best friend was not at his side.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The jarring strains of the violin came crashing though the walls of sleep surrounding John. "SHERLOCK! Stop playing the violin at who knows what bloody time of the morning!" John growled and buried his head under his pillow. A crash and muffled curses finally prompted him to stumble half asleep out of bed and into the other room. "Sher-"

"Sorry, sorry, dear!" It was Mary, looking rather embarrassed and muddled up in the stereo cords.

"What on earth are you doing?" John shook the last of sleep from his mind and knelt to help untangle his girlfriend.

"Sorry, you left the stereo on low. I was trying to turn it off, but turned it up by accident. And then I couldn't turn the silly thing off and ended up knocking down a speaker!" She grinned at her own ineptness and John laughed.

"I forgot to turn it off when I went to bed. Sherlock used to play some of these pieces." His smile faded and he abruptly stood. Mary looked at him sadly as he walked back to the bedroom, shoulders slumped.

* * *

Sherlock picked up his violin and started in on the Flight of the Bumblebee. He let the music sweep him away, giving himself completely to the notes that swept through the air. One of the strings was starting to go flat; he would have to retune it soon. As the song continued he played faster and louder, ignoring the clock's glaring face of 2 am. His thoughts tumbled as fast as the song and he dipped with the music, eyes half closed in concentration. He finished off with a final swish of his bow and sensed movement behind him.

"I'm thinking, so don't complain about the hour." This was an old conversation and the format never changed.

"Oh no, I thought it was wonderful, Sherlock!" Sherlock started at the unexpected voice and words. Where was the complaining?

"What?" He turned and looked at Molly, as if seeing her for the first time.

"I've never heard you play so quickly! Please, would you keep playing?"

"No." Sherlock's eyes hardened and he set the violin back in its case. "I'm going out."

"Sherlock!" Molly's entreaty was met by a slamming door.


	4. Chapter 4

John sat in his room, on the floor, with the lights off. It was evening and getting dark out, but he didn't notice. His shoulders shook, but silence blanketed the room. Then a sob broke the stillness like thunder. Another followed. Soon John couldn't contain it. His body heaved and he gasped, unable to draw air. He slowly bent to the ground, rocking back and forth. All his mind could see was Sherlock's body, tipping over the edge of the building, arms outstretched. He remembered in the moments before how Sherlock had reached out his hand to John and John had reached back as if he could somehow bridge the gap. He kept hearing Sherlock's heartbroken voice, the withheld sobs. And then the fall. Over and over again it repeated in perfect detail until John couldn't stand it anymore.

Mary came home after getting a phone call from their neighbors, worried about John. When she found him in the bedroom he was curled into the fetal position, hands over his ears, moaning, voice raw. Molly wondered how long he'd been screaming. She gathered the broken man up in her arms and rocked him like a small child.

"Shh...shh...it's ok. I've got you. It's all right now."

"...no!" John croaked and shook his head violently. "Sherlock, NO!"

Mary simply pulled him closer, happy that this time at least she had been able to get to him. Too many times she'd found him after one of these episodes, depressed and raw, unable to talk after the screaming. Now, all she could do was try to offer him what comfort she could, as John relived a scene only he could see.

* * *

Sherlock paced the room, his agitation growing. It was one of his off days and he could feel it. He hated these days, hated the emotions his treacherous body would bring into play. He threw himself into a chair and drummed his fingers, trying not to think of anything. Of course it was no success.

John's face, looking up at him when Sherlock stood on top of the hospital, haunted his mind's eye. He tried to shake it away, but another replaced it: John standing in front of his empty grave, begging Sherlock not to be dead. Sherlock's breathing hitched. He tensed as if expecting a blow. It was the last image that undid him. He couldn't be at his own funeral, of course, but he'd asked Mycroft to set up a camera so he could watch. He'd cared less who came, although the number surprised him. The only person he'd had eyes for was John. The pain on his best friend's face and the silent tears streaking his cheeks was an image Sherlock knew he'd never forget. He could never forgive himself for causing that pain.

As Sherlock one again saw those eyes, so filled with hurt, visible even over the camera, his shoulders started to shake. He refused to make a sound; he wouldn't bother the neighbors. Tears traced their way down his high cheekbones and Sherlock wiped away the offending signs of emotion. But they refused to be swayed. Finally, the pain was too much and Sherlock curled into a ball, trying to hide from the world while his frame silently shuddered.

When Molly came home, the stillness unnerved her. She knew Sherlock was there; he'd promised, but he was usually yelling at his experiments. Maybe he was asleep? She opened the door as silently as possible and peeked in. She froze. Sherlock was crying. Sherlock was  _crying_. Molly's instincts said to go comfort the thin man, but she knew he would never forgive himself for showing this weakness. She quietly backed out and closed the door before walking outside. She had to do some shopping anyway.

The man in her flat continued to cry, undisturbed. By the time she returned an hour later, he was glued to his microscope. Molly didn't mention his red eyes and Sherlock didn't volunteer an explanation.


	5. Chapter 5

John watched the TV, barely registering what was on. The noise droned on and lulled him into a drowsy stupor.

"No, no! It had to be the stablehand! How could you suspect the maid?" The male voice cut through the drone.

"Sherlock, it's the butler. I've seen this show before. How could you miss the gloves?" John half opened his eyes. Lestrade gazed back. John started and shook his head.

"Okay?" Lestrade asked. He knew John had lapses sometimes.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just so used to Sherlock yelling at the TV. He always loved crap telly. There was never any peace around when he got it into his head to watch something." Lestrade laughed, imagining the brilliant man yelling at the telly, and their evening continued.

* * *

"Sherlock! It was the stablehand, wasn't it! Did you see how suspicious he looked before the murder?" Molly almost bounced in her excitement, hopeful to show that she could connect to Sherlock on his level. He was so quiet now, not like with John.

Sherlock's eyes never left the screen. "It was the butler; didn't you see the gloves? His reasoning is translucent. It's obvious he was after the inheritance. Didn't you see his pupils contract when accusations were made?"

Molly opened to her mouth and then shut it, defeated.

"What, no rebuttal?"

"If you say it's right," Molly shrugged, "then I'm sure it is."

"John would have argued, even if he knew I was right. He hated when I watched crap telly."

Molly put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm sure he still hates it." This brought forth a faint smile and, satisfied, Molly settled back to watching.


	6. Chapter 6

John shivered in the cold and dug in his pockets for the pair of gloves he knew he had. His pockets came up empty. He felt a sudden drop of his heart as he searched his coat again. No gloves. Heart pounding, John ran back up the steps of his apartment and banged through the door. A quick scan of the hallway revealed no gloves. He opened his bedroom door and sighed in relief; he'd left them on the dresser. He grabbed the warm wool gloves and smiled. Sherlock had given them to John for Christmas, the same year John had given a pair to Sherlock. Now that Sherlock was gone, John cherished any small link to his friend. Armed with that memory and warm hands, John marched out into the cold.

* * *

Sherlock pulled his coat close against the nippy air. His hands instinctively dug in his pocket for his gloves. The soft brown leather met his fingers and he pulled them on, relaxing as the wind stopped chafing his skin. He looked at the gloves for a moment and smiled. John had given them to him the last Christmas they spent together. They were high quality, top of the line, and Sherlock had been surprised that John had realized that normal gloves wouldn't do. Sherlock hated the feel of synthetic or cheaply made materials. His skin was more sensitive than most—both a blessing and a curse. It allowed him to pick up the finer details that others missed, but it also made him highly sensitive to fabric. Hence why he wore such expensive clothes. There were few fabrics he could tolerate. But the gloves…he loved the gloves. Long hours of use had molded them to his hands, snug and warm. Sherlock continued on his way, smiling.


	7. Chapter 7

John turned off the kitchen timer and pulled the cake out of the oven. It was a perfect golden brown; John had been checking it for the past few minutes. Sherlock was incredibly particular about how a cake should be baked. When John had first made a birthday cake for Sherlock, he'd gotten an hour-long lecture on what kind of cake Sherlock would tolerate,  _"If you must make something at all; I don't understand why you think it's important!"_  and exactly what stage of golden brown it should be when it left the oven. It turned out the the only reason he put up with this plain yellow cake was because Myrcoft had made it for Sherlock when he was a little boy, before the feud started full force. John smiled at the thought of a little Sherlock watching his cake being made.

John now flipped the cake onto a plate and brushed off the crumbs. He put a single candle in the center, sans frosting. The only reason Sherlock stood for a candle was that John had dipped it in chemicals first to make it burn purple. John figured it was worth whatever chemicals leaked into the cake if it meant Sherlock actually ate something. That man would die of starvation someday and not even realize he was dead.

Of course, Sherlock  _was_ dead and John was longer in 221B, but that didn't stop him from making the cake. Sherlock would have expected it, no matter how much he complained. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and even Mycroft were coming over later to celebrate the dead man's birthday. John had just finished putting the last touches on the cake when he started to cry.

* * *

Sherlock checked the atomic clock, hand poised with a hot pad in front of the oven. When the alarm went off he whipped the oven door open, grabbed the cake, and slapped it down on the counter. Heat rose off it in waves. It didn't really look like what the picture online showed it too. He'd baked it at the exact time the recipe said, but his cake wasn't as brown on top. Making up his mind before it could be ruined, Sherlock ran and got his blowtorch. On a low setting he started browning the top of the cake, comparing it to the picture till he decided they looked suitably the same. Now it wouldn't be over baked, but look aesthetically pleasing to the eye.

Sherlock collapsed into a chair while the cake cooled. It wasn't his preferred yellow cake that Mycroft had made him when he was little; instead it was a mocha layer cake with chocolate rum cream filling. All of John's favorite things, but a complicated recipe. Sherlock never did much cooking, he usually preferred to eat out or buy a sandwich from the market than deal with the overpowering smells of cooking food and spices. John, however, warranted a homemade cake. Sherlock's carefulness and exact measurements ensured that there would be no room for error, but it was another matter all together when it came to mixing it. The instructions had said to fold in the eggs and the flour.  _Fold?_  He'd looked it up to make sure he'd done it correctly, before finally managing to get everything into the pan and the oven.

He now went and checked the cake. It had pulled away from the sides of the pan and he'd forgotten to loosen it. Cursing silently, he shook out the cake and yelped when it landed with a  _splat_ on the plate. He poked it with a tentative finger. It jiggled, looking nothing like cake was supposed to look like. The next step said to cut it in half, but he decided to modify it. Maybe other people didn't measure as precisely and their cakes came out dryer. He poured the syrup over the cake, soaking the bottom since no syrup was going inside. The frosting was next, half sliding off the cake. Frowning, he consulted the instructions, but it made no mention of frosting not sticking to the cake. Doing the best he could, Sherlock finally shoved the offending thing in the fridge and flopped in a chair. He was never making a cake again, whether it was for John or not.

Molly came in an hour later to find him dozing in an armchair. Her shrill squeal at seeing the state of her kitchen jerked him from his unplanned nap. "Sorry, I'm going to clean that up."

She looked around in dismay. "How did you get chocolate on the ceiling?"

"I may have accidentally taken the beaters out of the bowl while running to check the recipe." Sherlock felt his ears warm in embarrassment. He'd been concentrating!

Molly took a deep breath, obviously containing her tirade. "Where's the cake?"

"Fridge." Sherlock pulled the door open so she could see his masterpiece. The masterpiece in question looked back at him, a dismal dripping mess now staining the inside of the fridge. "Well, it didn't look like that when I put it in."

Molly pulled the plate out of the fridge and put the cake carcass on the counter, observing it. It seemed to be leaning dramatically in one direction, frosting dripping everywhere. She poked it with a fork and it made a wet  _squelch._ "What did you DO?" So Sherlock went over his actions in exact detail, looking unhappily at his ruined cake.

"You did WHAT with the blowtorch?" Molly interrupted. At Sherlock's explanation she groaned. "You can't follow the directions exactly! You needed to bake it for longer; it was still raw in the middle." Sherlock glowered and continued. At his conclusion Molly started laughing. Sherlock gave her a hurt look. "Sorry! Haven't you ever baked before?" Sherlock shook his head. "You can't put frosting on a hot cake, it won't stick. And soaking it in syrup just added to weakening the base of the cake."

"Well, what am I supposed to do? John's birthday is tomorrow!"

"You're having it delivered anonymously, right?"

"Yes. With luck he will think it's Mycroft. Even if I can't be there, I still need to do something for him. He always did for me."

Molly smiled. "Let's get this mess cleaned up and I'll help you make another."

**A/N- The recipe link keeps getting messed up but if you search Google for "Mocha Layer Cake with Chocolate-Rum Cream Filling" it's the first link :)**


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock's Phone: Messages--Drafts--Select

2:13pm – I'm sorry John

2:14pm – Please don't cry. I'm not worth it

8:16am – Bored!

11:48am – I need milk

5:21pm – I saw you today. You didn't see me

6:08am – John, she's using you. Dump her

9:42pm – Told you

12:00pm – Stop going to my grave

7:22pm – I miss you

4:30pm – I need a case!

9: 59am – I don't like her

1:04pm – You're serious about her, aren't you?

5:15pm – Baker Street looks lonely without you

11:33pm – How long has it been? Two years?

4:42pm – I saw you propose to Mary. I arranged for the musicians that played.

12:37pm – I still disapprove

3:30pm – Moriarty is dead. So many still left.

12:00am – Happy New Year, John

12:01am – I wish I was with you

5:28pm – You haven't visited my grave in 6 months. Have you forgotten me?

3:52am – Does she make you happy?

1:18pm – Finally. Moriarty's network is dead. You are safe. Can I come back now?

* * *

John's Phone: Messages--Drafts--Select

2:00pm – Sherlock, I miss you.

2:14pm – I know you'd hate it, but I can't stop crying.

10:22am – I don't know what to do, now that I'm not helping you.

4:58pm – I passed our favorite Chinese restaurant and thought of you.

3:08pm – I got a new girlfriend. Maybe I'll feel better.

9:27pm – Never mind. You would have told me she was using me. I wish you had.

1:44pm – I went to your grave today.

12:19am – Sherlock…help me.

8:38am – I got another girlfriend. I feel like maybe I can try again now.

5:31pm – Mary and I have been together six months. I wish you could meet her.

7:26pm – I visited Mrs. Hudson today. She never rented out our room. It's waiting for you.

6:05am – Today marks two years since you fell. I still can't believe it.

9:19pm – I proposed to Mary today. She said yes. I wish I could have gotten your blessing, or at least your complaints.

10:42am – Weirdest thing; when I proposed there were musicians. I'd begged the restaurant to have music that night but they refused. Mycroft, maybe?

4:30pm – Lestrade called me today and said they finally hunted down Moriarty. Am I safe yet?

12:00am – Happy New Year, Sherlock.

12:01am – I wish you were here.

8:52am – I haven't visited you in 6 months. You'd carry on if I did visit you, wouldn't you. You'd say it was useless.

2:45am – I don't know what I'd do without Mary. She's the only reason I'm not dead.

2:33pm – Lestrade said that Moriarty's network was finally overthrown. Sherlock, can you please come back now?


	9. Chapter 9

"Here, Sherlock." Molly handed him a bowl, which he took with some trepidation. He peered into its depths.

"What  _are_  they?"

"They're strawberries. Don't tell me the genius has never seen one before."

Sherlock shuddered. "John tried to force me to eat them once. I blew them up."

"You…what?" Molly eyed the bowl like she wanted it back before it, too, met a fiery fate.

"John said he wanted the strawberries gone before he came back. He didn't specify  _how_  he wanted them gone, so I used them for an experiment. Very interesting results." Sherlock started examining the strawberries again, considering what fate they would meet this time.

Molly snagged the bowl back and handed Sherlock a single strawberry. "Eat it. Now. With your mouth." As an afterthought she added, "and swallow it."

Sherlock took it and grimaced. "How do you  _eat_ it? It's got seeds on the outside. I don't like it; it's unnatural."

Molly couldn't stop laughing long enough to explain.

"Wha-at?" Sherlock whined. Molly took the strawberry back and pulled off the green top. Still laughing, she shoved it in his open mouth. He bit down instinctively and made a strangled sound of surprise. Molly finally lost and it slid onto a kitchen chair, tears leaking out of her eyes.

* * *

"Here, John dear. First strawberries of the year." Mrs. Hudson handed a few to John. He took them and smiled back at the older woman.

"I tried to feed these to Sherlock once. He'd never had one before, still hasn't. He used them in an experiment and burned them up. I was so mad; I had to go out and buy another case of strawberries. And forbid him from trying any more experiments if he got bored."

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "That's Sherlock all right! I fed him so many foods for the first time when he lived her. I don't know what his family fed him when he was a little boy, but it wasn't varied." She sighed. "It's so lonely without you boys here."

John laid a hand on her shoulders. She turned and hugged him with one arm. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just…it's not home without him. When I walk in I keep expecting him to burst in behind me, yelling about a case. I can't be in 221B without him."

"I left everything the way it was…I never ended up getting rid of the chemistry set. I keep feeling like, if I keep it long enough, maybe he will come back." The two sat in silence for a long moment, thinking, until John smiled and reached for a strawberry.


	10. Chapter 10

The scratch of chalk on the blackboard made Sherlock feel sick. The professor didn't seem to notice the suffering of his class. But, then again, it was only Sherlock's sensitive ears that were suffering. He needed to talk to the professor about a case, but 10 minutes of class lecture remained. He gritted his teeth. The professor drew a long line; chalk shrieking.

"Enough!" Sherlock stormed to the front of the lecture hall, grabbed the chalk from the teacher, and threw it into the trash bin across the room. "Have some respect for our ears,  _Professor_." Sherlock knew his disguise would keep him safe and these stupid Americans didn't know who Sherlock Holmes was anyway. Why he had let himself be dragged to America with Mycroft, he didn't know. Probably because he'd been promised cases and more freedom than London. Also, he had a chance to find out if Moriarty's network here was cause to worry.

"Excuse me? Who are you?" The professor was spluttering.

"WHY DID YOU MURDER ANDREW BLAKE?! TELL ME!" The professor jumped and started gibbering like a rabbit about how he didn't do it, it was his brother and he'd been threatened and…Sherlock hit record on the device in his pocket. When the professor finished, Sherlock swept out of the room without a word. He grabbed the last piece of chalk and dropped it in the trash as the door slammed behind him. Dead silence followed him down the hall.

* * *

John grit his teeth as the doctor giving the lecture scratched a word on the board. The man drowned on about new policies and health procedures. John stifled a yawn and then shuddered at the scratch of the chalk. He took a deep breath. The doctor started drawing a diagram and John finally gave up. His ears hurt. He gathered his things and fled the room. In the hallway he leaned against the wall, trying to forget the shrill noise ringing in his ears. He never could stand that noise, even when he'd been younger. Feeling better after escaping another hour of torture, John decided to go visit Molly; she was so lonely nowadays. The smaller man started walking to her flat. He never noticed the CCTV camera watching him and never knew of the frantic phone call warning Molly to do  _something_ about Sherlock. Molly decided it would be a good idea to "meet" John accidentally on the way. This was also when Mycroft decided to get a second flat for Sherlock and Molly to live in.

John continued down the street, the scraping of the chalk growing more distant in his mind, never knowing how close he came to seeing his best friend alive.


	11. Chapter 11

John's first kiss was at the age of five. It had been with a rather pretty redhead that John had been teasing for days. She'd finally had enough kissed him, and then pushed him into the sandbox. Disgusted, John had sworn off girls for life. At 13, he revoked that and had his first girlfriend. They broke up two weeks later—still a record for that age—and John gave up again. At 15, John felt knowledgeable enough about relationships to try again. He was short for his age, so he made up for it with his personality. He was kind, caring, and a good listener. The last was all he really needed. Other boys started asking how he managed to get whatever girl he wanted and John always said the same thing: just listen. Girls like to talk, to complain, to gossip. If you lived through it, you got the rewards: love, passion, and lots of kisses. By the time John arrived at Bart's, his studies left him with no free time. Then the war, of course, canceled any more chance he might have had once out of school.

When John started living with Sherlock he realized how much he missed female companionship. However, Sherlock seemed to actively sabotage John's efforts of keeping a girlfriend. So many times he'd been pulled out of a girl's arms by Sherlock's hurried voice; more worried about his flat mate's judgment alone than insulting his girlfriend. Girl's wanted complete attention, not a boyfriend who went haring off with another man in the middle of the night.

After Sherlock's death, it took John a long time to find—and be able to care for—a woman. After a few false tries he found Mary. She did not expect John to listen, she expected him to talk. She didn't want him to hold it together and be perfect, she wanted him broken and himself. She wanted to know all about Sherlock, about their adventures, about his quirks. When John talked to Mary, he felt like Sherlock was still alive. She helped him decorate for Sherlock's birthday party, she helped him pick out Sherlock's Christmas present, she got out the extra cp for Sherlock's tea. She never complained about John's screaming when he woke from crying, his bouts of depression, or his conversations when he forgot his friend was dead. She simply accepted John for who he was and loved him for it. If Sherlock was still alive, John thought that his friend  _might_  have even liked her. This woman, John decided, was whom he wanted to spend his life with.

* * *

Sherlock has never kissed a girl. Well, not on the lips. He'd kissed Molly or his mother on the cheek before, but that didn't count. When Sherlock was younger some of the girls at private school had been drawn to his exotic looks, but as soon as they got to know him they changed their minds. Sherlock didn't care; he was too busy studying and honing his deduction skills. Once he escaped the private school grind, he could have cared less about the female sex. Irene was the first woman whose intelligence had come close to matching his. She was a person of interest, someone to study and observe. She'd had feelings for him and sometimes he wondered if he'd felt anything for her. He'd certainly been affected when he thought she was dead, but most of that sadness was for the loss of a brilliant and fascinating individual.

He'd often wondered what was so great about kissing and why so many crimes were connected to love. He understood the chemistry, but not the emotion. He'd thought of asking Molly to kiss him so he could make some observations, but Sherlock decided that would be simply cruel to Molly. She would do it if he asked, but to her it would mean something different, although she'd try not to show it. No, better to never have been kissed and avoid the situation all together. Too many emotions involved.

Once, in a moment of weakness, Sherlock wished he'd been kissed, but he'd quickly dispelled the thought. Maybe if he saw John again he could kiss him…Sherlock tried to think about it as a "normal" person would view the statement. No, he was not gay. No, he was not romantically interested in John. He just wanted to complete his experiment and John seemed the most likely candidate. He didn't need to worry about John pining after him like Molly would. Lestrade and Mycroft certainly weren't candidates and there was no one else available. No…it would have to be John. Sherlock smirked to himself, weighing whether the resulting theoretical fight would be worth the shock he would put John in. Maybe it would be useful in a case. Could it put off a suspect, or a criminal and give him more access to the information?

Molly looked a little nervously at Sherlock as a slow smile spread across his face. She knew that smile. That's when she hid anything she didn't want experimented on and made herself scarce.

"Where's John?" Sherlock said suddenly.

"He's not here, Sherlock. Why?" Molly had mostly given up on reminding Sherlock that John hasn't been here for a long time, and still wouldn't any time soon.

"I need him for an experiment…" Trailing off into silence, Sherlock sank deeper into his chair. Molly made a prudent call to Mycroft and told him to make  _sure_ Sherlock had no way of getting to John. Molly knew that Sherlock probably wouldn't forget the experiment and felt a pang of sympathy for the future John who would be at the end of the unfortunate incident. Happy that it wasn't her, Molly made her escape before she got roped into something as well.


	12. Chapter 12

"John! What on earth happened to you?" Mary looked in horror at her boyfriend.  
He groaned and rubbed his face, making the mess worse. "Surgery today. It was a mess. And, of course, the mess ended up on me." He looked down at his coat, splattered red, and his hands, which were in the same state. "I should shower."

Mary hmphed. "You very well should! Stop faffing about and get cleaned up. I'll make us some dinner."

John leaned down for a kiss but she sidestepped him. "I'm not that bloody!" he groused as he slogged off to the shower. Mary's laughter simply followed him down the hall.

* * *

"Sherlock!" The scream was shrill with worry. Molly barely caught the tall man before he collapsed. "What happened? Oh my gosh, is that all your blood?"

"Suspect armed," Sherlock mumbled, eyelids fluttering. "Accomplice...wasn't expecting it."

"I'm calling Mycroft. You need care immediately." She spoke hurriedly into her mobile, taking in Sherlock's appearance. He seemed to have multiple stab wounds on his chest, staining his once nice shirt. She took off her jacket and pressed it to the wounds, hoping it would help. Molly gently touched his head and it came away covered in blood. She let out an expletive and prayed Mycroft would come. She daren't move him more, in case she made the injury worse. Where was John when Sherlock needed him? He'd never be so reckless with John along. But Molly knew that was a distant hope. Until then, she hoped Mycroft hurried up.


	13. Chapter 13

"All right, Sherlock. There have to be some rules. Sherlock? Are you even listening to me?"

Sherlock's head whipped around and he hgve Molly his best "listening" face. "Rules. Continue."

"We are in a new flat and I want it to stay that way. You have to be careful with your experiments; no setting furniture on fire, breaking things in explosions, or contaminating food."

Sherlock made a face. "I can't always predict the outcome, that's why it's an experiment. I can't just stop my experiments or I'll literally go mad."

Molly sighed. "I know, but you have to be a bit more careful. Just try to move breakable things out of the way first. Try to stay away from explosions. And NO more body parts. I'm not bringing any more home from the morgue."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Molly! I need those specimens! How else can I test my mixtures?"

"If it is important enough, you can write me a three page paper on why you need it, what the experiment is, and how it will help you. I'll make a decision after that."

"Molly!" Sherlock felt anger rising. He considered releasing his deduction skills on her, but decided that hurting her and —ultimately— making her cry was not a good option. "Molly, please, I'll go stark raving mad. I can't sit here cooped up every day, waiting for Moriarty's network to make a move, doing nothing!"

Molly felt like she was loosing her hold on the conversations. She retreated to safer waters. "I'll talk to Mycroft and see what we can figure out." Sherlock wailed and threw himself in a chair like a petulant child. Not for the first time Molly wondered how John had stood living with Sherlock for so long. Her patience was very near the breaking point. When Sherlock started sawing away at his violin deliberately off key, she fled the flat.

* * *

"John! Where are your clothes?" Mary was standing in the middle of John's spotless bedroom.

"Put away, why?"

Mary walked out, looking a little perturbed. "I was going to pick up your clothes for you but there was nothing to do."

John laughed and gave his girlfriend a kiss. "Sorry, I'm not leaving my dirty clothes out for you!"

_**Two Days Later** _

"John, where are your pictures?"

"Pictures? What do you mean?"

"Did you never get them from Baker Street? I saw lots of paintings and drawings when we visited but you've never brought any of it home. You can, you know; I don't mind."

"Those were Sherlock's." John's mouth hardened and Mary quickly dropped the subject.

_**Three Weeks Later** _

"John, can I ask you something?"

"Yes, dear?" John looked up from the paper he was reading.

"Are you…happy with me living here? Because if not," she hurried on, "I don't mind moving back out. We can take it slow."

John's brow furrowed. "What in the blazes do you mean?"

"Well, it is just…all the stuff in this flat is mine." Mary gestured. "You don't seem to have anything personalizing this place to being yours. I thought, maybe you felt like I was invading, or that you weren't comfortable with me being here." She looked down, embarrassed.

John sat down next to Mary and gathered her into a hug. "No, no, not at all. I'm a military man; I've been trained for a Spartan life style. I've never had a lot of knickknacks or personalization in a flat. When I lived with Sherlock he had enough clutter for both of us. I simply don't have anything to put out."

"Well, then we need to change that! You, young man, are getting some rules!" John rolled his eyes and laughed. "First," Mary continued, "you are going to go pick out one thing from 221B and bring it here. I don't care if it's Sherlock's or not. Second, we are going to print some of the pictures from our dates and frame them. Last, you have to leave your clothes on the floor!"

"Mary!" John moaned, "I can't be messy on purpose!"

"It's my job!" She laughed. "I feel weird if there's  _nothing_  for me to clean up. Leave me the dishes after dinner or  _something_!"

John groaned again before ravishing Mary with kisses. She squealed and her complaints were soon silenced. The rules, however, would not be forgotten.


	14. Chapter 14

_It was odd, knowing that you were going to die. Of course, you hoped that you would be able to escape for a little while longer, but there would always be collateral damage. And it was John who would be in the line of fire._

It was a week before what would soon be known as the Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock and John had spent a quiet day in at 221B Baker Street. John was simply happy that Sherlock was avoiding the media for the moment. Sherlock, on the other hand, was thinking. He knew the move Moriarty would make, even if he didn't yet know how the other man would do it. And he knew there was a very good chance he would not survive.

"John, what would you do if you knew you were going to die?"

"Sorry?"

"It's a simple enough question."

John turned and stared at the dark haired man, wondering what on earth had come over him. The man in question sat in a chair with his violin, which had been silent for some time.

"Well, if there was nothing I could do about it, I'd spend it with my loved ones. I'd wrap up anything I wanted to finish, and I'd just make the best of it."

"What if you weren't near your family?"

"Friends, if I could. If not, I'd phone. Write letters if I had to. Tell them how much I loved them. Sherlock, what  _has_  come over you?"

"I'm trying to deduce a victim's thoughts and actions before suicide. It would be helpful in cases. I've never thought about why  _normal_  people might die of their own will and I have probably overlooked evidence or hypotheses for this reason."

John rolled his eyes. Only Sherlock could take such a human question and turn it into casework. His own motives for the intentional overdoses were probably much different than other people, although John had never pried about it.

"John? Come sit on the couch. I'll play you my new piece and you can give me your opinion." Sherlock looked at John and felt his heart twist with something dangerously close to emotion. He considered it and deduced that he was feeling melancholy. The whole day had felt like a low. It was the calm before the storm and it was a storm Sherlock wasn't sure he would survive. Maybe…jut maybe…he could weaken his will and give in to the emotion. Just for tonight. Just for a little while.

"Sherlock?" John's voice centered Sherlock and he picked up the bow. Closing his eyes, he began to play. The piece was one he'd been composing all day. Into the music he'd poured his walled off emotions, his guilt, and his sadness. This song was the letter to his friends, the time with his family, the tying up of last ends. John didn't know, but this song was Sherlock's apology.

When he finished the song John seemed a bit snuffly. He shook his head and then smiled at Sherlock. "That was one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard. Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock put the violin gently back into the case and closed the lid. He sat down next to John and for a long moment only silence filled the air. John seemed to sense that something was different today because he asked Sherlock tentatively, "Can I give you a hug?" Sherlock usually reserved his hugs for Mrs. Hudson and sometimes John was jealous of the easy warmth they shared.

In answer, Sherlock simply flopped into John's lap and wrapped his arms tightly around John's waist. John seemed shocked at this uncharacteristic and childish gesture before wrapping his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock was not used to feeling these emotions of...sadness and, regret? When he had overdosed in a suicide attempt, it was to escape Mycroft, to make a point that his brother could not control whether he lived or died. Now, Sherlock was hoping to escape Moriarty's grasp through a fake death, but there were so many unknown variables. He very may end up dead. Sherlock knew the mastermind would probably threaten anyone important to him. The logical victim would be John, as Moriarty had already seen the man's loyalty. Sherlock didn't know how, but it wasn't hard to deduce that John would be used as leverage to ensure Sherlock's death.

Although Sherlock was loath to admit it, he cared for John. He loved him. He was the family Mycroft wasn't and his parents refused to be. John was the friend he'd never had, the only person to put up with him and even enjoy spending time with the high maintenance genius.

John did not seem to notice Sherlock's inner turmoil, sitting in a comfortable silence. As the fire burned lower, Sherlock's violin music seemed to circle the room. It was then that Sherlock decided to do a few last things for John, to "wrap things up". Soon only the soft breathing of the two men filled the room. Only the clock and dying fire witnessed their sleep, or the fact that neither loosened their embrace the entire night.

* * *

Sherlock sat in Molly's new living room, uncomfortable at the change of scenery. After John almost discovered him at Molly's, Mycroft had insisted they move to a flat on the opposite side of London. Molly would still check into her original flat from time to time to keep up the pretense of living there, while Mycroft would station one of his female employees to live there full time. To the general public and John, one of Molly's old school friends was staying with her for moral support after Sherlock's death.

For Sherlock, however, it was an unfamiliar building. He didn't know the layout of the rooms and furniture, he didn't know where to find his few belongings, and it didn't feel like home. The new smells bombarded him and caused his nose to burn: bleach, Pledge, and Windex. The chairs were stiff and unused. His sheets hadn't come yet so the cheap cotton chafed his skin. Hence why he was sitting stiffly in the living room.

He did have one small spot of comfort. The new flat had a CD player, which Molly's old one hadn't (after an experiment had gone wrong and damaged it). Now, Sherlock was listening to a CD that contained only one song: the song that he'd played for John on their last "good" night together. Sherlock remembered the night in perfect detail and could almost feel John's arms wrapping around him. Feeling more alone than he had in a while, Sherlock slid to the floor and wrapped his arms around his knees. The violin music slowly flowed around him, lulling him into sleep.

* * *

John sat in his living room alone. Mary was asleep in bed, but his restlessness had caused him to seek solace elsewhere. It was nights like these, when he felt the depression setting in, that he pulled out the CD. It had taken John a long time to find it. After Sherlock's death, he hadn't been able to even walk into 221B. He'd taken the few necessities he'd needed and immediately gotten a new flat. A few months later, however, he'd finally summoned the courage to go back and collect some more of his belongings.

Of course, the flat was still in the disasterish state Sherlock had left it in that last day. He'd had to thoroughly clean off the desk to find all his papers and books. In doing so, he'd found the CD. It was in a clear jewel case with the words "For John" written on it. Wondering what on earth it could be, John had asked Mrs. Hudson if he could borrow her CD player for a minute and she'd complied. The song started without preamble, but within a few seconds John recognized it. It was a longer version of the song Sherlock had played for John that one night so long ago. The high quality sound meant that Sherlock must have gone to a studio to record it. He must have known how much his suicide would hurt John and left this as an apology.

The thought of Sherlock caring so much always brought tears to John's eyes and now was no exception. The small man sat back against his couch and closed his eyes, letting the music carry him back to that night. He wished, more than anything in the world, that he could hug Sherlock right now, hug him and never let go. But that was a wish that would never come true. Pushing the thought aside, John immersed himself in the music. He never noticed when the song ended because he was already asleep.

**A/N- Thank you to everyone for the lovely reviews, etc! They are always appreciated!** **If you catch any typos, name misusage, etc, please let me know! I don't always catch things when I proofread, or it's quite late when I'm writing ;P**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N- Yes, this is a bit OoC, but I wanted to write it anyway. I'm not very happy with how Sherlock's part turned out...I'll have to keep tweaking it. Reviews are lovely.**

 

The red LED clock informed the viewer that it was 2:07am. Sherlock stood in the door of Molly's room uncertainly. She lay tangled in her cover; so a nightmare or restless sleeping earlier, but her breathing now was calm and deep. Finally making up his mind, Sherlock walked up to the bed and touched her shoulder. She rolled over and blearily peered at him through the gloom.

 

"Molly? Can I sleep with you?"

 

"Mhhm of course." She yawned and closed her eyes. Sherlock waited. Suddenly her eyes flew open and she bolted upright, registering the situation. "Bloody—!" She sputtered and tried to orientate  herself. "Sherlock! What's gotten into you?"

 

"Can I sleep with you?"

 

"No! Go back to your bed! Are you sleepwalking?"

 

"Molly," Sherlock repeated for the third time, "Can I sleep with you?"

 

She sighed. "Why, Sherlock?"

 

"John let me." The sentence was delivered matter of factly.

 

Molly turned an interesting shade of red in the dark. "Sherlock, whatever was between you and, um, John…we aren't…I mean, we can't, um…"

 

Sherlock interrupted her. "Why would you think John and I would be sleeping together? Is that one of your misinterpreted stereotypes of two men sharing a bed?"

 

Molly sighed again. This was Sherlock. He would never understand what was socially acceptable. "Never mind. Why would John let you sleep with him?"

 

Sherlock shifted feet, suddenly mute.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"I, um, can't sleep."

 

"Sherlock, you never sleep. You seem to exist on will alone, or nap in the most random of places. Why the sudden trouble?"

 

Sherlock mumbled something, uncharacteristically embarrassed.

 

"What?"

 

"I had a nightmare." Sherlock's cheeks were tinged pink in the faint light and he hugged his arms to himself, upset at having to admit a weakness. He hated the base human need for comfort after something he had no control over. That was one of the reasons he rarely slept; he did not want to meet the demons of his dreams.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Molly immediately understood his lack of explanation. That was not something Sherlock would want to admit. "Please, join me. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

 

Sherlock lay down tentatively next to Molly and stared into the gloom. "Goodnight, Molly." Molly realized her question had been avoided, but only a few minutes later her breathing evened and softened as she fell back asleep. Sherlock lay awake for a long time, thinking.

 

The first time Sherlock had asked John the dialog had gone almost the same.

 

 

"John? Can I sleep with you?"

 

"Sherlock? Why on this earth would you want to do that?"

 

"I can't sleep." Sherlock's eyes had slid away from John's, finding the wall incredibly interesting.

 

John, however, had more intuition, perhaps because he suffered the same. "Nightmare?"

 

Sherlock humphed and kept his head down. "Sorry," he forced out. That was the correct response, right?

 

"Don't worry about it. Come here." John scooted over and Sherlock stiffly slid between the sheets. They weren't as soft as his, but at least he could stand the fabric. Sherlock rarely got nightmares, but from time to time they would plague his sleep. When he had been younger it was Mycroft who would always pull the crying boy into his bed to "keep the nightmares away". It was the only thing that had seemed to work and Sherlock had grown to depend on the comfort. As he grew older, he learned to suppress the memories causing the nightmares and they soon plagued his sleep no more. His control of his subconscious also stemmed from his estrangement with Mycroft. But once he started living with John, the nightmares returned. He still had not deduced why, but it was a problem that niggled at him each night. Until he found the answer, he tried to avoid sleep until he was driven to this: resorting to a stupid childhood habit to sleep. How embarrassing.

 

Still, John asked no questions, merely shut his eyes and let his breathing slow. Sherlock finally started to relax as well and felt sleep pull at his mind. However, it seemed like he was only asleep for moments before he woke, disoriented and terrified. He could remember the dream, but didn't care to. A man's raised voice still rang in his ears and Sherlock shook his head to try to dispel the phantom noise. He hated the nightmare's effect on his body as well as the fact that there was nothing he could do to change it. His heart beat too fast and his breathing was shallow. He jumped at John's touch; he must have woken him.

 

"Hey, hey, it's ok. You're awake now. Shh…" John's words didn't make sense, but washed over Sherlock the same. The smaller man drew the other's shuddering frame to him and slowly stroked Sherlock's head till he seemed to calm. Sherlock's fingers clenched into John's tee shirt, still in the grips of terror. Slowly, though, they loosened and he relaxed. Sherlock wasn't sure who fell asleep first that night, but there'd been no more nightmares that week or since. The next day the two men never spoke of the incident again and Sherlock was fairly sure that John has forgotten completely. Sherlock had not. It was a constant reminder that he must never resort to that childish habit again that degraded him so. But that had been then. 

 

 

Now,  John's warm hands were not stroking away the fears of the night. And unlike most times, Sherlock remembered these nightmares. He always did. It was John who haunted his dreams now; images more terrible and gruesome than he had thought he could imagine. Even if Sherlock someday was reunited with John, he doubted he would ever escape the dreams. So Sherlock lay awake and listened to the unfamiliar breathing pattern next to him. The next time he had a nightmare, he did not tell Molly.

* * *

John woke with a strangled cry and fell off the bed. Mary was awake within seconds and helped him up.

 

"John? What happened? Nightmare?"

 

He nodded. "It's the same; always the same bloody dream. They all vary, but this one haunts me the worst. Just that image, of Sherlock falling and there's nothing I can do. And then I'm there when they turn him over...gosh, Mary, there's so much blood. It's everywhere. And his eyes are open; those bright beautiful intelligent eyes are dead and cold and there's nothing there. Just—nothing." John buried his face in his hands. "I can't keep this up. I'm afraid to even go to sleep."

 

Mary rubbed his back, unsure of what to say. "Let's go visit Sherlock tomorrow, ok? I have a book I've been saving up for him that I'm sure he'd like. Maybe that will put your mind to rest for a little while, ok?"

 

John buried his head in Mary's shoulder. "Thank you. I love you darling, you put up with so much from me."

 

"You will never get over Sherlock and you shouldn't. But he wouldn't want you to be in pain now, would he?"

 

John half chocked, half laughed. "He'd tell me the emotion was pointless and wouldn't understand why I was upset in the first place. Cold hearted bastard. Man, I loved him." John rubbed his eyes and lay back down again. "I miss him, Mary. More than anything."

 

"I know, John, I know." And Mary did know. She could see it in how John acted, in his stories of Sherlock, in the way John's eyes lit up when he said Sherlock's name. Sometimes, Sherlock was not dead to John and Mary could not tell him otherwise. Mary did not mind, though; she never would. What John and Sherlock had had was something not many people found. It was a bond that extended past social boundaries, the lines of simple friends, and the camaraderie of two brothers. In John, Mary could still see glimpses of that bond and to her, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. So Mary gently stroked John's head till he slipped off to sleep and sent a silent prayer to Sherlock, wherever in this world or the next he might be.


	16. Chapter 16

John stood in 221B and simply looked around him. Mary had sent him here on a mission to pick out one item to bring back tot heir flat. The room was virtually unchanged since John had been here last. A few items were missing, like John's favorite flag pillow, but John guessed that was either Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft's doing. John knew that one day he would walk in and his and Sherlock's old home would be empty, devoid of anything that made it theirs. He pushed the thought away.

Now, though, he had to pick out one item. So much of the clutter was so irrevocably Sherlock's that John could not consider taking it, even if it one day disappeared to Mycroft. He turned again. What could he…of course. The Cluedo board stared back at him from where it was stabbed into the wall over the fireplace. John thought back to when they first played the game.

oOo

"Sherlock, the rules aren't wrong! The victim did not do it!"

"The rules are wrong. The makers of the game had the same simple minds as you; they did not observe the flaws in their own game!"

"No, Sherlock, they made this game for normal people who do not have a problem with it. Not for bloody insufferable geniuses that think they know better! That's it; we are never playing this game again. I win." John sat back with a huff, not in the least bit satisfied.

Sherlock made an angry sound, looking like a spoiled child that didn't get its way. John was quickly learning that Sherlock was a bloody awful loser. Sherlock grabbed the Cluedo board angrily and marched up to the fireplace. Removing the dagger stabbed into the wood, he held the game board up to the wall next to the mirror. Ignoring John's exclamation of anger he stabbed the knife into the wall, pinning the board there.

"Mrs. Hudson's going to make you pay for that," John said wrathfully.

"Bored, John, I'm BORED!"

oOo

How the rest of that evening had ended, John didn't remember, but the memory of the game lingered. Smiling, he pulled out the dagger and took it and the board with it. A small folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor, but John was already walking out of flat, deep in thought on whether he could convince Mary that he really did need to stab the board back into the wall in their flat.

* * *

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft." The two watched each other like wary alley cats, sizing each other up. Despite Sherlock's mandatory hiding as he hunted down Moriarty's network, the tension between the brothers was still not resolved. "Why are you here?" Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"Brought you these." Mycroft held out two large bags. Sherlock took them and glanced inside. It held some of his books from 221B, the flag pillow John had always liked, and an assortment of other books, letters, and bits he didn't recognize.

"Thought you might want a few things you've been missing." Mycroft said, as if that was all that needed saying. And to Sherlock, it was. He still had questions, however. "The pillow? Why?"

Mycroft shrugged. "John will want it back when you see him again. I didn't want Mrs. Hudson doing something with it." Sherlock frowned. Was Mycroft actually trying to cheer him up? He immediately dismissed the thought. Mycroft was being a cold-hearted diplomat, that was all.

"What are the papers and bits from?"

"Your grave. Lestrade, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, even Sally Donovan have left things for you. I have the grave on feed, so when items appear I have one of my men pick them up. I have no use for them and they belong to you so…" he shrugged.

Sherlock nodded once and put the bags aside. He would sort through the mess later. "Any news on The Web?"

"Moriarty's taught them well. We might have a lead, but it's too early to tell. As always, I'll keep you updated."

The two men stood in silence for a long moment, gleaning the information they wanted from each other. Sherlock knew that Mycroft was under a great deal of stress—he'd lost weight quickly, not due to his diet—he hadn't slept well two nights before, and he missed his tea today to visit Sherlock. What Mycroft read from Sherlock, he didn't share. Finally, Mycroft nodded to Sherlock and left without a word, while Sherlock turned back to the file he was studying earlier.

Later, when Molly was home, she found the new pillow on the couch. It was worn and used by now, fraying at the edges.

"Sherlock, where'd you find this pillow? Can I throw it away?"

"Leave it." Sherlock continued to stare into his microscope. Molly noticed the stacks of books, obviously from his old flat and realized that's where the pillow must have come from. It was unusual that Sherlock would even notice a pillow, though, and she wondered what it reminded him of. Exactly what memories were attached to that piece of cloth and stuffing, however, were not ones Sherlock was going to share.


	17. Chapter 17

"Mary, I'm sorry, but I despise the country. Hate it. Abhor it. Take your pick."

Mary simply laughed. "It's nature, John, it won't kill you."

"It's all these bloody spiders!" John brushed one off his pants leg, as if to make a point. "If you make me walk through one more—" He looked up just in time to get a face full of the web Mary had just avoided. He yelped and started cursing, frantically trying to wipe the sticky white threads off his face. While he went into a mad frenzied dance, Mary sank into the long grass, her sides aching with laughter. Who knew that such a strong man, who had no problem doing all sorts of oddities for Sherlock, would be scared of the common spider and its evil web?

* * *

"Sherlock! Where are you?" Molly's voice echoed over the hill, but Sherlock did not bother to answer. He was stock-still, crouching in the grass, studying a dew covered spider's web. He was fascinated by the complexity of the tiny creature's web; it's strength relative to its size, the material it was made out of.

The spider walked across its web and Sherlock tracked its every move. Molly wasn't very fond of spiders so he wouldn't be allowed to bring it back for study. John had hated spiders, vehemently. One time, Sherlock had a tarantula in a cage to study its patterns and teeth marks for a case. John had walked in, seen it, turned pale as a ghost, and fled the flat. But now there was no John to ruin his observations, so Sherlock settled himself into the grass with a faint sense of contentment.


	18. Chapter 18

John almost fell asleep waiting for a cab. He'd a restless night, nightmares plaguing the dark hours of the morning. He'd finally given up on sleep and spent the early hours watching telly and thinking. Work had been immeasurably long and now that it was dark his body was screaming for sleep. A cab finally pulled over and he fell into the backseat yawning. "221B Baker Street, please." He dozed off for most of the ride, only waking with the lurch of the car stopping. He paid the cabbie, fumbled through his keys to get in the door, and drug himself up the stairs to the flat. It was dark when he came in; Sherlock must be out or holed up in his room. As long as he didn't start playing that bloody violin tonight, John didn't care what he did. He considered the effort of going to bed in his room and opted for the couch instead. Not bothering to remove his shoes, he fell asleep almost before he even lay down.

The next morning, it was not Sherlock's carrying on that woke him, but his girlfriend's hand on his arm. "John? You ok?"  
"Hmph? Yeah, yeah. Did Sherlock let you in?" Like he ever would.

"Mrs. Hudson let me up. You sure you're alright?"

John yawned. "Sorry, I was knackered last night. Work was…long." He yawned again. "Did I miss something? What were we supposed to be doing?"

"Nothing, nothing. You're fine. I was just wondering what happened to you."

"Too much work," he laughed. "Where's Sherlock? I'm surprised he's not insulting us by now." He turned and his sleepy eyes finally focused on Mary.  
She smiled sadly at him. "Let's go see him, ok?" She pulled the suddenly slack man to his feet and touched his cheek. "Come on. Then we can go home." She steered him out the door.

"But, I was home…" John's voice seemed to linger in the flat long after the pair left.

* * *

Sherlock opened the door of the cab and slid in, nose buried in a large pile of files. "221B Baker Street."

The cabbie gave him an odd look. "You sure? Can you pay?"

"Of course!" The dark haired man snapped. "Hurry up."

Shrugging, the cab pulled away from the curb. Sherlock paid little attention to the ride, examining the information Mycroft had given him on some leads for Moriarty's network. When the cab stopped he handed the money to the driver and wrestled out the door, juggling the files. He finally looked up when he reached for the door and froze. The gleaming gold 221B looked back at him, taunting him. No wonder the cabbie was so surprised. He hadn't realized how long he'd been in the car. This was a long way from where he'd met Mycroft, and an even longer way from home. Sherlock was wearing a disguise, as he usually did when anywhere even remotely close to London, and it  _was_  three in the morning, before anyone would be up. Still, he could not linger here. It was a grave error.

Grinding his teeth, he quickly walked down the street, away from his home and everything he'd cared about. "Mycroft? I need a car. Yes, I know I left and said I didn't need one but…I was preoccupied. I need one  _now_. Baker Street. Yes, Mycroft, I know. It won't happen again, you can be sure of that." Sherlock ended the call and slipped the phone in his pocket. Mycroft would believe him, he knew, because Sherlock would never, ever make this mistake again. It could cost people their lives. But, unfortunately for him, no matter how much control he asserted over his mind and body, he was not infallible.


	19. Chapter 19

John sat and stared at his gun for a long time. He had two options, two simple choices that were tearing him apart. Should he live, or die? John had a feeling that he wasn't thinking straight, but pushed the thought away. When he'd been an Army doctor, he'd seen his friends die in front of him, but he'd felt no great need to join them. When he'd come back to London with a psychosomatic limp and a head full of problems, it had seemed like a welcome option. But then he'd met Sherlock and the thought never occurred to him again.

Now, thought, John was seriously depressed and the easy way out seemed more and more attractive. He weighed his options for a long time. He had no girlfriend, no ties keeping him here. No, there was Mrs. Hudson, his friends, and his sister. Sherlock was gone. There would be no more cases, no more danger, and no more midnight escapades. There would be people who would be hurt if John died. Sherlock was gone.

John sat and debated for a long time before making a decision. He picked up the gun.

* * *

Sherlock had tried many different ways to escape Mycroft's grasp. Whether that was verbally abusing him, living on the streets, drugs, or—in the most extreme cases—suicide. Sherlock wanted to make it clear to Mycroft that there were some events even he could not control. Rather than making a point, however, the minor British official took it as a sign to simply ramp up his control of Sherlock's life. The situation was spiraling out of control when they tentatively agreed to the flatmate situation. If Sherlock agreed to live with a flatmate, Mycroft would back off of Sherlock. He just had to agree to stay clean and  _keep_  the roommate. Even the stubborn Mycroft realized a compromise was needed before Sherlock's suicide plan finally worked.

Now, Sherlock was considering killing himself, if only to escape Molly's insistent chatter on the phone. He concentrated on the paper he was writing, trying to ignore her.

"And then Jami found Andy in bed with another woman—I told her he was bad news—so of course she had to dump him on the spot. Right? Yeah, Yeah. No, I work tomorrow, you?"

Sherlock considered how to explain a more complicated concept in his paper. Molly's laughing interrupted his thoughts. He was sorely tempted to do something drastic, if only to stop that  _horrid_  noise. He settled on yelling instead; she was letting him live with her. "MOLLY! Shut UP! I'm concentrating!"

"Sorry, I have to dash!" Molly told the phone. "Talk to you later!" She quickly hung up and threw Sherlock a guilty look. He was buried in his computer as blessed silence filled the flat. With a sigh, Sherlock put the finishing touches on Sigerson's paper.


	20. Chapter 20

John laid the paper wrapped book at the foot of Sherlock's grave. He always found some interesting book, a scarf once, an odd piece of science equipment that Sherlock would have understood. He knew the objects were useless, but sometimes he could pretend that Sherlock wasn't dead, but collecting and using the objects left here.

In actuality, Mycroft had explained that when he came by he collected the items left so they wouldn't be ruined in the rain. "I set them aside for him," he'd said with a genuine look of sadness. "It's like...if I keep them for him, maybe someday he will come back." Mycroft's personality had done a complete 180 after Sherlock's death and John could see how deeply the loss effected him.

This time, John had brought a book describing the complexity of bees. He didn't understand most of the words; it had too much science jargon. Still, it was Sherlock's type of book.

Mary stood about 50 feet away, giving John some privacy. She had her own small package to deliver. When John had asked what it was, she had laughed. "I remember what you said about the Cluedo game, so I got an Agatha Christie novel, cut out the ending, and pasted in some blank pages."

"Why?" John had been baffled.

She'd laughed. "So Sherlock could write in his own deductions and solve the case! He'd never be satisfied with a pre-written ending. He'd think it was all wrong."

John had swooped in and landed a kiss on her cheek. "You are simply brilliant!"

Now, though, John was in a much more somber mood. "Hello, Sherlock. It's been…gosh, I don't know how long. Too long. I don't try to think about it. You're probably telling me off right now, aren't you? Saying this is pointless. Well, I don't care, Sherlock, I don't care. Please…" his voice broke. "Please—just come back. Please." John sank to his knees and Mary joined him, putting a hand on his shoulder. Together they stayed in silence.

* * *

Sherlock lifted two paper wrapped books from the bag. One was addressed from Mary, John's girlfriend. The other had only his name, but Sherlock recognized John's handwriting. He opened Mary's first. It was a book from an author he didn't recognize; he never paid attention to pleasure books. He frowned and glanced at the back. A murder mystery—boring, dull, and with an inept conclusion then. He flipped through the book and noticed that the last chapter or so had been cut out and replaced with white paper. A single question stood at the top: Who was the murderer and how did they do it? A challenge then!

Sherlock brightened and opened John's package next. It was a book on bees. Bees? Why on earth would John have gotten this? He put it aside for later. The next item must have been left by Mrs. Hudson; his favorite mug. Sherlock gave a rare smile, thinking of the motherly old lady. Lestrade had left a plastic file with a copy of a case the Yard hadn't been able to solve. Sherlock deduced the answer in minutes, but the exercise was pointless as he could not tell Lestrade anyway. The last item was a letter in a blank envelope. Upon opening it, he found Sally Donovan's handwriting, of all things.

_I'm sorry. There, I said it, ok? I don't know what to think anymore. Lestrade is still working on the investigation about Moriarty and all those crimes. He never really gave up on you, you know. Lestrade doesn't trust me anymore; not like he used to. He thinks I made everything up because of how much I hated you. I didn't make it up, though; I believed it. I still wonder how you solved all those cases...people just aren't that smart. Lestrade thinks you are, though. Maybe he's right._

_Still think you're a freak._

Sherlock stared at the letter for a long time, unsure what to think.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock hated the beach. To be more precise, he hated sand. It chafed his skin, got in his clothes, stuck to his legs. He avoided the beach whenever he possibly could. Now, however, he stood on a beach in Italy cursing Mycroft for dragging him with. His brother had cited Molly needing a break as the reason, but he was sure Mycroft just wanted to keep an eye on him. The British official had rented a private villa with its own stretch of beach where Sherlock could go undisguised. Sherlock had been banished out of the villa to "get some sun".

He shuddered and picked his way off the beach and to the private pool. Coatless and shirtless for once, he dropped his towel on a chair before swan diving into the pool. From below the surface, the world was quiet and still. No scents assaulted his nostrils; no sounds filled his ears except the  _whoosh_  of water. The cool liquid did not irritate his skin like the air so often did with its cold breezes. Sherlock wished his lungs did not require air so he could stay here forever.

* * *

Mary and John were going to the beach. They'd decided to go on vacation as they both had four days off. So far, though, they had yet to see the actual sand. A cold front had unexpectedly moved in and the couple was cooped up inside, rather miserably. A knock on their hotel door prompted John to tear his eyes from the rain. A bellhop stood outside their door with a thick envelope. "Sir. Supposed to hand deliver this letter, to be opened immediately." He handed it to John, nodded, and left.

"John? What is it?" Mary walked over and peered over his shoulder.

John shrugged and tore it open. He pulled out two tickets and a letter, which he skimmed. "Mycroft?" he exclaimed. "He says there's a car waiting out front for us, gave us tickets to Spain, and says there's a hotel booked and waiting for us!" John gave Mary an astonished look.

"How on  _earth_  did he know where we were?"

John laughed. "I wouldn't even want to guess. It's Mycroft; that's just what he does. Now we need to pack! We have three days of sun and sand coming up!"

**A/N- Reviews and story ideas are welcome :)**


	22. Chapter 22

**JOHN**

Wake up  
Kiss Mary  
Shower and shave  
Stare in mirror, examine lines that never used to be there  
Get dressed: shirt, jumper, jeans  
Walk into kitchen  
Put in toast, make tea  
Open computer, check blog. Of course there's no message from Sherlock.  
Stare out window thinking of Sherlock  
Mary gets up  
Make breakfast and tea while she showers  
Get ready for work while she eats  
Grab cab, arrive at office  
Greet staff, collect first patient of the day  
See patients till lunch break, then continue after  
Take cab home  
Eat dinner with Mary  
Tell her stories of Sherlock  
Watch telly together  
Go to bed  
Toss and turn because of nightmares  
Finally sleep

* * *

**SHERLOCK**

Wake up  
Go to mind palace, check important notices of the day  
Get up, shower  
Get dressed: button down shirt, pants, dressing gown  
Consider breakfast, instead make cup of tea  
Open computer, check blog. Of course John hasn't posted anything  
Check CCTV hot spots for signs of Moriarty's network  
Write paper for Sigerson to publish  
Make tea for Molly, who will stumble in to the room any minute  
Lay on sofa thinking till she leaves for work  
Put on disguise, drive out of London  
Meet with Mycroft's car, head to Mycroft's  
Ignore memories of childhood growing up here  
Spend the day working with Mycroft tracking down Sebastian Moron and his minions  
Arrive home in time for some experiments  
Set off smoke alarm, break said alarm  
Apologize to Molly when she returns  
Eat a few biscuits for dinner  
Send Molly to bed  
Watch telly alone  
Go to room and attempt to sleep  
Toss and turn because of nightmares  
Think of playing violin, decide Molly will fuss  
Sit in window, watching the sky till dawn


	23. Chapter 23

"Molly...I'm never having sex with you!"

"WHAT?" Molly whipped around and stared at Sherlock. The man in question was draped over a disgusted looking Mycroft. "What happened?" She asked.

"He was drugged. Harmless, or he wouldn't be here. It was one of Moriarty's men. He escaped, but not for long if I know Sherlock."

"Will he be ok? The last time this happened...John told me about it."

Mycroft stifled an involuntary noise. "Yes, so I deduced. It will take him some time to sleep it off. Until then...I'm afraid I can't help."

"Of course. Thank you, Mycroft. I'll keep you updated." Mycroft nodded and fled the flat. Molly turned to Sherlock. He was staring intently at her table. What he saw, she had no idea. "Sherlock?"

"I miss John. Jawn. Jonny John. Joooohn." He seemed fascinated with the name. "John needs me. He misses me." Sherlock nodded like that's all he needed and attempted to walk out the door, probably to find John. Fortunately for him, he forgot to walk around the couch and face planted the cushion. He threw himself violently to the floor. "Couch! Sofa! Fabric!" He pointed. "It tried to EAT me!" Molly couldn't help it; she started laughing. "Sherlock, the sofa likes you. It didn't try to eat you."

He peered at it for a long time. "I like chocolate," he declared. Molly raised her eyebrows. "You always say I don't have emotions. I have emotions. And feelings. And those bits that make you do...stuff. So there!" He was quiet for a long moment. "Why'd I have to die?" he asked plaintively.

"You decided that yourself, Sherlock, remember? Because of Moriarty."

"Moriarty-shmoriarty. He's gone. Boom! Shot! Oh, I'll tell John!" He started fumbling across his coat. Molly neatly removed the mobile before Sherlock even noticed. He quickly lost interest and gave up. "Poor John John. He's saaaaad. That makes me sad. That's not right. Does Jawn want to diiiie?" he wailed.

Molly put a hand on his shoulder. "No, Sherlock, of course he doesn't want to die. He misses you." She wasn't sure what to do with this suddenly emotional man.

"He tried. My John tried. He had a gun and everything."

"He wouldn't use it, Sherlock. You know that."

Sherlock stared into space, losing the conversation. He jerked suddenly and kept talking. "He put it to his head. He was gonna!"

"But he's not dead!" Molly made a mental note to have a long talk with John and see how he was doing. "Also, how on earth did you know?"

"Mycroft. That's not important! John was gonna. And then I'd have to die. Again. For real. I couldn't fake it; last time I cheated. No cheating!" He wagged his finger at a pillow.

"Sherlock...no dying for you. Come on, can you stand?" She helped him up, wobbling like a newborn foal.

"Legs! I still have legs! Ooooh, fingers, lots of fingers!" He examined them, moving each in turn. Molly tried to walk him to his room but he'd suddenly turned into a rock. A rock with the mentality of a five year old. A truthful one, no less. She suddenly grinned. "Sherlock? What's the worst thing you ever did to John?"

Sherlock stared at her for a long time, moving his mouth like a fish. He finally seemed to be able to get words out. "Besides drugging him?" He scrunched up his face. "Stole his girlfriend's phone! I texted him all sorts of evil messages as her. He took a cab to her house and dumped her." Sherlock looked quite proud of himself. "He didn't like me very much when he found out I did it though." His lip began to tremble like he was about to start crying.

Molly looked suitably horrified, hoping she remembered to hide her phone later. She finally managed to get him walk three steps towards his room. He peered at the ground like an owl, blinking big eyes before seeing his Chemistry set in her kitchen. He made a stumbling run for it while Molly yelped, grabbed him, and used his momentum to propel him to the door of the room. Wresting with keeping the large man standing, she finally got the door open. Sherlock immediately started to wail, big tears sliding down his cheeks.

"Sherlock?!" Molly wasn't sure what to do with him.

"I don't wanna! I don't like the dark!" He collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

Molly glowered at him, although it was kind of adorable to see Sherlock so unrestrained. At the same time, it was a little eerie to see him without his mask. An emotional and drugged Sherlock wasn't something she'd ever expected to deal with. Finally giving up, Molly turned on the light in his room and sat with her back against the doorframe. She pulled the crying man to her where he curled into the fetal position and sobbed. Molly stroked his head, wondering how long this would last. Whether  _this_  was the effect of the drug or his separation from John, she wasn't sure.

* * *

John had broken his leg. How, he refused to say, but Mary had suspicions of the case Lestrade had asked for his opinion on. Living with Sherlock had rubbed off on the doctor; not that he had Sherlock's amazing deductive abilities, but he could look at a situation and see it from the angle Sherlock would have.

Unfortunately, John wasn't as fit as he had been when he was constantly on the go with Sherlock. John knew that he should have realized this before trying to jump the building. There had been no other way to reach the top of the opposite building without a lengthy process of breaking down a lot of doors. He'd done it plenty of times with Sherlock, but now he was alone. It had obviously proven to be a bad idea. He'd found the evidence he needed, at least.

Still, John wasn't doing much considering of his life choices. He was drugged up on a variety of pain meds for his leg and would stay that way for the next few days. He now lay on the couch in his and Mary's apartment, babbling to his girlfriend. She was filming him and trying hard not to laugh.

"When I was at Bart's we decided it was a good idea to go streaking…we were caught and soon the whole school know. When I was six, I wanted to be a bird so I jumped out of a tree and sprained my wrist. I like crap telly even if it is, well, crap. Girls are pretty. I like girls. Girls don't like me. Why?" He stared at Mary, seriously confused.

"I do, silly!" She laughed, leaned over, and kissed him. He considered this for a long time.

"Where's Sherlock?"

She quieted. "He's not here, John."

"Yeah…he thought he was a bird didn't he?"

"Yes. He must have wanted to fly."

"I bet he could! Spread that coat and  _whoosh_! He could fly!" John made the accompanying hand gestures and Mary laughed again. "He took my girlfriend's phone once," he whispered confidentially. "He texted me while pretending to be her. Said all sorts of awful things. I went to her flat and broke up with her. Found her with another guy, so that's probably why Sherlock picked her to use. But I was his experiment!" He seemed rather indignant and sat up, peering around the flat as if Sherlock would step out of the woodwork.

"John? Would you like something to eat?"

"STRAWBERRIES AND MUSTARD!" He crowed, distracted from the earlier conversation.

Mary made a face. " _What?_ "

"I hate mustard. No I don't. Yes I do! Tea. Tea. I…would like…tea." He put a finger to his nose and crossed his eyes trying to stare at it. Mary decided that tea sounded like the safest option John had asked for and hit  _stop_ on her camera. John would hate her when he regained his full mental function, but it was so worth it.

* * *

**A/N- I drew on my own experiences of being on drugs from my wisdom teeth. People can have many different reactions, hence why Sherlock is soooo emotional. Also, did anyone see the little nod at Doctor Who?**


	24. Chapter 24

"Mycroft! You can't keep me cooped up in this flat! I'm going crazy!"

"You _know_  why you have to stay hidden. You're the one who thought up this whole crazy scheme to begin with." Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother's immaturity.

"I'm BORED! I feel like my brain is melting in here. Even in this new flat, I can't go into the city. It's not safe for me here in London. I have to be able to do my experiments and hunt down Moriarty's network. It's too hard to continue here. Please, brother, you have to let me move out of London. Heaven knows you will still keep an eye on me." Sherlock had the wild look in his eyes that had once driven him to suicide. That, and he had used the word "brother" and "please" in the same sentence. This was not the normal Sherlock; this was a desperate man ready to do whatever it took to escape.

Mycroft was quiet as he thought, hating the idea of removing his brother from the range of his constant supervision. However, by now he'd learned that if he didn't bend to his brother once in a while, he would have no brother. "I could set you up out in the country, away from the city, but Molly…"

"I can come check on him every few days," she interrupted. Mycroft had his suspicions that Molly was at the end of her rope dealing with Sherlock and needed the break just as much. Even John would have been tested.

"Someone needs to be with him at all times," he countered. There was no way he was leaving his brother alone to his own devices.

Sherlock glared. "I'm not a child,  _Mycroft_."

"No," his brother replied sadly, "but I still don't trust you. You'll hare off on your own, do something idiotic, and end up  _really_  dead."

Before Sherlock could retort, a female voice interrupted. "I'll stay with him." The Holmes brothers looked first at Molly and then turned to find Irene Adler standing in the doorway. She walked in and kissed Sherlock lightly on the cheek. "Now, how did you survive that fall? I'd love to use it sometime."

"H-how?" For once, Sherlock was speechless. If she had figured out how to find him…that did not bode well. John would be in danger if Moriarty's network realized he was alive.

Irene laughed, unworried. "I know you too well, Sherlock. You'd never commit suicide. Took me a while to track you down, though."

Mycroft smiled thinly, eyes hard. "Well, I think we just solved our problem. I'll prepare things so you can move out next week. Now, Irene, would you mind telling me how you found him? We can't let this happen again, for more than just Sherlock's safety."

"Sorry, it was me." The two brothers shifted their gaze to Molly. "Irene got in touch with me a few weeks ago. She couldn't believe Sherlock had killed himself, especially without saying anything to her first. She said it 'wasn't like him'. She seemed like a good person to have on our side and I know Sherlock gets along with her, so I told her."

A faint smile flashed across Sherlock's face at her initiative. Mycroft looked positively livid. "Molly! What if Irene was still working for Moriarty?"

"Hey now, I  _am_  still in the room," Irene interjected angrily. The conversation between the two girls and older Holmes brother deteriorated into an argument. Sherlock simply smiled to himself and picked up his violin. Things would definitely be interesting with Irene around and that's just what he wanted.

* * *

"John? Tell me about the Woman." Mary lay against her boyfriend's side, enjoying the evening fire.

"Ah, Irene Adler. The only woman I think Sherlock recognized as being almost as intelligent as him. I've often wondered if he had feelings for her; he was certainly in a mood when he thought she was dead. I like to think so, but this  _is_ Sherlock we are talking about." He laughed softly. "She cared for him, which was unexpected. Not many people can deal with Sherlock for long."

"You did," Mary pointed out.

"I lived with him, I didn't date him," John corrected. "Irene had a knack for finding Sherlock in the oddest places. We visited France once for a case Mycroft had asked us to check on. We were in the middle of the investigation when all of a sudden she was there, draping herself over Sherlock. She told us where to check for some answers—a great help, I admit—but then she insisted on following Sherlock around for the rest of the day flirting, while he ignored her. That night, she disappeared. Three months later, she showed up in Sherlock's bed."

"What did he do?" Mary interrupted.

"What he always did: ignored her or worked around her. Sometimes I really wonder if he was human. It became a pattern; she'd show up and tinker with his experiments, rearrange his books, and mess up his sock index. Oh, he'd so furious when he came home and found what she'd done. The fights they had…she loved to mess with him. Unfortunately, I was the one who had to deal with the aftermath. He would sulk for days on end. For all his intelligence, it was like living with a five year old sometimes."

"What did Irene think of you?"

"She knew my role as well as I did. Friend, but also pawn to Sherlock. She usually left me alone and only went after Sherlock. At first, if Irene wasn't around when he came home and found things…moved, he'd blame me simply on principle. The first time I caught her at it I made her promise to stick around till Sherlock got back. I was tired of being blamed. Sherlock wasn't stupid, he knew it wasn't me, but he loved an excuse to drive me bonkers. The times I've wanted to punch that man…" John grinned.

"How could you stand to live with someone like that?" Mary asked, askance.

"For the most part, it honestly didn't bother me that much. He usually tried in his own way to make up for it down the road. And I was his friend."

"His best friend," Mary corrected.

"Yes," John smiled, "his best friend."


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N- In advance, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. Moffat, Whedon, and I just became best friends.**

* * *

The first day, John survived.

The second day, John survived.

The third day, John survived.

The fourth day was the funeral.

The fifth day, John started cracking.

The fifth night, John started crying.

The six day, John was losing it.

The six night, John lost it.

The seventh day, John was gone.

The eighth day, John was screaming.

The ninth day, John was at the grave.

The ninth night, John slept there.

The tenth day, John found his gun.

The eleventh day, John put it to his head.

The twelfth day, John put it to his head.

The thirteenth day, John put it to his head.

The fourteenth day, John saw his therapist.

The fifteenth day, John saw his therapist.

The sixteenth day, Molly spent the night with him.

The seventeenth day, Molly took the gun away.

The eighteenth day, John saw his therapist.

The nineteenth day, John was at the grave.

The nineteenth night, John slept there.

The twentieth day, John ran away.

The twenty-first day, John was still running.

The twenty-second day, Lestrade found him.

The twenty-third day, John was in the hospital.

The twenty-fourth day, John was in the hospital.

The twenty-fifth day, John was in the hospital.

The twenty-six day, John was in the hospital.

The twenty-seventh day, John got out of the hospital.

The twenty-eighth day, John saw his therapist.

The twenty-ninth day, John found his gun.

The thirtieth day, John put it to his head.

The thirty-first day, John pulled the trigger.

* * *

The first day, Sherlock survived.

The second day, Sherlock survived.

The third day, Sherlock survived.

The fourth day was the funeral.

The fifth day, Sherlock watched John.

The fifth night, Sherlock watched John.

The six day, Sherlock watched John.

The six night, Sherlock started crying.

The seventh day, Sherlock tried to see John.

The eighth day, Mycroft locked Sherlock in his room.

The ninth day, Sherlock watched John.

The ninth night, Sherlock hid in the graveyard and watched John sleep.

The tenth day, Sherlock fought with Mycroft.

The eleventh day, Sherlock screamed.

The twelfth day, Sherlock begged Mycroft.

The thirteenth day, Sherlock tried to escape.

The fourteenth day, Sherlock calmed down.

The fifteenth day, Sherlock called Molly.

The sixteenth day, Sherlock started to relax.

The seventeenth day, Sherlock relaxed.

The eighteenth day, Sherlock watched John.

The nineteenth day, Sherlock watched John.

The nineteenth night, Sherlock hid in the graveyard and watched John.

The twentieth day, Sherlock started to panic.

The twenty-first day, Sherlock was panicking.

The twenty-second day, Sherlock ordered Mycroft to help Lestrade.

The twenty-third day, Sherlock hacked the hospital cameras.

The twenty-fourth day, Sherlock watched John.

The twenty-fifth day, Sherlock watched John.

The twenty-six day, Sherlock watched John.

The twenty-seventh day, Sherlock was finally calm.

The twenty-eighth day, Sherlock watched John

The twenty-ninth day, Sherlock worried.

The thirtieth day, Sherlock had to be locked in.

The thirty-first day, Sherlock was catatonic.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N- This is a two parter chapter. You only get part one today. Maybe I'll make you wait 3 years for part two XD *evil laugh*  
This is an extension of the last chapter, explaining John's actions.**

* * *

John saw no point in living. He knew he was depressed, but didn't care. What point was there without Sherlock? His life had been aimless when he returned from the war; it was Sherlock who had giving him definition and purpose. But now he was alone. Now, he was tired of the never-ending pain. He was tired of the ache in his chest every second of every day, remembering that his best friend was gone.

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The world seemed to fade from his eyes and it felt like someone was physically cutting into his chest with every beat of his heart. So many days he felt like he couldn't even breathe, like he would die from pain alone. But still this charade at life kept on. Each day worse than the last, each day considering why he even bothered living. Each day being reminded in every tiny way that Sherlock was gone. The hospital hadn't helped; he finally just told them what they wanted to hear so he could leave. His friends simply reminded him of what he'd lost. Sometimes the sadness was so great all he could do was curl into a ball and scream till, throat raw, he lost his voice. Other times, for a moment, he thought he saw Sherlock lying pensively on the couch or working on an experiment. John would call to him, reach out—but there would be no one there.

John finally made a decision. He picked up his gun like he had countless times before. He put it to his head. But, this time, he pulled the trigger.

* * *

Sherlock was glued to the computer screen, watching John over the cameras Mycroft had installed in John's new flat. He lived in front of that screen, his only link to his best friend. He thought John would have handled his death better. It surprised him how much John seemed to care for him, despite the callousness he'd often treated John with. Sherlock never thought that his death would drive John into a depression that neither John nor the doctor could break. If only he could tell John he was alive. He was sure that they would be able to keep it a secret…But Sherlock knew that was not an option, no matter how much he hoped. Mycroft was right for not letting him hare off to John.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a few minutes; John wasn't going anywhere. He rubbed his hands over his face, hating the lack of sleep that caused his body to feel sluggish and slow. He figured he would have to give in and take a quick nap soon or he wouldn't be able to stay awake. He opened his eyes and focused on the screen again.

John had picked up the gun like he had countless times. Sherlock watched as he put it to his head, horror flooding his veins. No. Not again. Please, be over this. Just  _think_! But this time, John did not think. He simply pulled the trigger. Sherlock's scream echoed through the mansion, bringing Mycroft and his private staff running. It was the scream that saved John's life.

Mycroft glanced at the screen, saw what had happened, and immediately had someone call 999. One of his private staff had just moved into the flat next to John's, in case John needed protection from Moriarty's men. They'd obviously heard the shot and on screen Mycroft watched as they quickly worked to staunch the bleeding till the ambulance arrived. Mycroft thanked his stars that he required all his men to have medical knowledge. Even as it was, there was a large chance that John would die or be mentally impaired. The elder Holmes refused to think what Sherlock would do if something happened to John. Speaking of, Mycroft finally turned to check on Sherlock. He gasped and felt his heart plummet.

* * *

When John finally gained consciousness again, he heard the muffled beeping of a heart monitor and smelled the antiseptic that named the place a hospital. His neck was stiff and he panicked, unable to move his head. A voice warbled through the air, stretching and yawning into gibberish. He moaned, trying to ask what was going on. He opened his eyes and immediately shut them again. The light burned, causing a splitting headache to add to the throbbing pain that echoed inside his head. Through his closed eyelids, he could sense that lights had been turned off and he opened his eyes again. The light seeping in the cracks of the door and windows still made him wince, but at least the pain was a little more bearable. A face swam before his eyes and more sounds assaulted his ears but he couldn't make sense of what was happening. He squeezed his eyes shut and moments later drifted off as his pain medication was increased.

* * *

Sherlock was catatonic. Mycroft was seriously worried about his younger brother. He'd never had a reaction like this and Mycroft never thought that John had such a large effect on Sherlock. He remembered long ago words: "Caring is not an advantage." Here was a prime example. If Sherlock hadn't been so worried about John, he could be using Mycroft's considerable resources to be hunting down Moriarty's network. Mycroft wouldn't be sitting at his little brother's bedside, worrying. Mycroft paused and went over his last line of thought. He laughed dryly to himself. Caring is not advantage…and what was he doing? Caring about Sherlock. Still, he rationalized; he was related by blood to the younger man.

Sherlock, however, stared off into space, oblivious to the world around him. Mycroft had tried everything he knew to draw his brother out, but nothing worked. He had his suspicions, though. When they were young, one of Sherlock's many therapists had actually imparted an intelligent method of coping to the small boy. Since the data that constantly assaulted Sherlock every day often overwhelmed him, the man had told Sherlock of the attic theory. It simply stated that the mind is like an attic; empty at first, but quickly filled as one learned new things. Normal people filled their attics with everything they learned or saw and quickly lost the important things in the jumble. If one could categorize it, however, and continually reviewed the information stored there, one could potentially never forget anything. It would also help Sherlock sort all the information he was barraged with. His brother being who he was, Sherlock had taken the idea and ran with it, turning it into a vast mind palace. This was where Sherlock was probably right now; locked away somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Whether it was by choice or not, however, remained to be seen.

* * *

When John woke again, he felt like a great deal of time had passed although he wasn't sure how he knew. The pain in his head was marginally less. His eyelids fluttered and he found the lights were dimmed. Still, they burned his eyes and he squeezed them shut. A voice spoke, but the words sounded as jumbled as before. He tried to ask, "What am I doing here?" but it came out as a moan, due to a breathing tube running into his mouth. He started to panic and thrash, but something was holding him down. The voice said something else and then seemed to give up. He worked to move his hand, to make his fingers reach out, but they did not obey. Finally, he sank back into his drugged sleep.

* * *

It had been a week since Sherlock went into a catatonic stupor. He was now kept in a private room strapped down and hooked up to an IV with a constant array of nurses and doctors checking on him. Mycroft was seriously worried about his brother. He thought back to an earlier conversation with the head doctor.

"What did you find?"

The man sighed. "I believe Sherlock suffers from depression with catatonic features. There is no way to tell how long it will last; it mostly depends on him. We are doing the best we can to stimulate his mind and hopefully draw him out of this phase. Once he is aware of his surroundings we can give him antidepressants and evaluate what we should do from there."

"What if he doesn't…wake up?"

"There are more drastic measures we can take, but I don't want to consider them right now. You said he doesn't have a history of depression?"

"No, but he does suffer from sensory processing disorder and a myriad of other things, as well as drug abuse. You've seen the medical files."

The doctor nodded. "Yes. He is a bit of a…special case. It may be that he simply needs to work this out himself first. The circumstances surround this is…unique."

"Of course." Mycroft nodded and observed the man, looking for any hidden motives. "You are aware, of course, that being on my private staff means that this information does not reach any interested parties."

The doctor nodded, all business. "Of course, sir. I understand the risks."

"Good." Mycroft saw no lie in his eyes or body posture. He would keep Sherlock's secret safe. "I have important matters to attend to. I will check in later." He nodded to the doctor and left, swinging his ever-present umbrella.

That, however, had been a week ago. Now Mycroft stood by his brother's side, looking into the eyes that stared past him, empty and emotionless. They were dead, flat, zombie-like eyes. They scared him and Mycroft was not a man easily ruffled. He touched Sherlock's hand, feeling it's icy coldness. His younger brother was so thin under the hospital gown. Dark shadows graced his skin; cheekbones jutting out like razors. His muscles were clenched into cords but the restraints kept him from hurting himself in his bouts of thrashing. Whatever nightmare Sherlock was stuck in, Mycroft hoped to heaven he escaped.

* * *

**A/N- All medical information is taken from research. If you know more about what is factually correct, please let me know :) I'm no medical girl, but I did the best I could!**


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N- This is a two parter chapter. Please see the previous chapter if you are coming into this new :)**

* * *

John was awake more often now and for longer. Sounds were still distorted and although his vision was improving he still had a hard time focusing. He couldn't for the life of him remember what happened that landed him in the hospital, or what he'd been doing before hand. The days blurred together, broken by patches of consciousness. Sounds finally started to come together into words, but John could not understand what they said. The tube to his mouth was finally removed and he could breathe on his own. Still, John did not look forward to these bouts of wakefulness. His head felt like it was cracking, shards being driven into his brain and his body often trembled with bouts of heat and cold. Whatever had happened, it couldn't have been good.

One morning, John woke to find he was thinking more clearly and the pain was less. He lay motionless, enjoying the sensation, and did his best to remember what happened. He and Sherlock had helped Henry Knight and then…his mind blanked. He had no idea what happened that landed him in the hospital. He slowly opened his eyes and found that the light no longer burned. It still caused pain to spike behind his eyes, but he could bear the early dawn light. Harry lay asleep in the chair next to him, swimming in and out of focus. John simply enjoyed the sensation of being more "normal" before he slipped off into sleep again.

The next time he awoke, Harry was gone and a nurse was messing with a monitor. He cracked his eyes and grunted, trying to form words. "Whasssh..." was all he managed but the nurse immediately turned. She spoke, but he still could not understand her. Frustrated, John tried again. "Wha…append?"

"Yush dssss orrened ur ssst." She replied. John had no idea what she'd said. Was he in another country? The walls started to swirl and he gave up as his head began to ache again.

* * *

Sherlock was yelling. Mycroft had fled the private wardroom his younger brother was staying in, unable to stand the constant screams. Only one word had been understandable: John. Mycroft knew the brain was a delicate thing, but he never thought it would be Sherlock who would lose his hold in it. He controlled his mind with such an iron grip. The private doctor had said that all they could do was hope that Sherlock snapped out of it. "He may very well wake up and not even realize what happened. Or, if he does, he may ignore it completely if what you say about his personality is true." Mycroft had snorted; Sherlock would spend the next month trying to deduce why this catatonic state had happened and, more importantly, why it had happened to him. Maybe he could find a case to distract him...but Mycroft doubted there'd be anything important enough to distract his brother.

On the up side, John was showing signs of improvement. The doctors said that as he pulled the trigger his hand had probably involuntarily twitched or John had flinched, causing the bullet to travel slightly off course. It had skated across the top of his brain rather than lodging deep inside. That, coupled with the immediate aid, was what had saved his life. That he would suffer brain damage of some kind was inevitable, but the doctors hoped he would be able to live a normal life again. It was still early to tell, but John was able to breathe on his own and had attempted to speak. If only Sherlock would break out of his catatonic state…Mycroft rubbed his face and wished, not for the first time, that John and Sherlock had never met.

Two days later, Sherlock opened his eyes and asked, "Where's John?" The nurses had rushed for Mycroft and when the British official arrived, he found Sherlock tearing down the staff for being strapped to a bed and demanding to know what had happened.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft hugged his brother before remembering himself and standing back. Sherlock stared at him, open-mouthed. "You can release him," Mycroft directed the doctors and nurses.

"Mycroft, what on  _earth_  did I do to deserve this?"

"You were catatonic, Sherlock. Don't you remember?"

Sherlock paused for a moment and frowned. "John?" His face fell.

"John. He's fine, by the way. In the hospital recovering. It's too early to tell how much the brain damage will effect him, but I will keep you updated."

Sherlock, finally free of the tubes and restraints, tried to stand and almost fell over. He was weak from being fed only by IV and lack of movement. He held onto the bed and gritted his teeth, ignoring the help the staff offered. His eyes were hard and determined. He had a purpose now. "Mycroft, we are never speaking of this incident again. If, someday, I see John again, you will never tell him of this either. Now, what information is there on Moriarty's network? We've been losing valuable ground."

It appeared that Mycroft's earlier thoughts had been wrong. This was the man Mycroft knew, the man who would stop at nothing to solve a case. Except, this time, it was to protect someone. For once, something was more important than the younger Holmes's traitor emotions.

* * *

Over the next few months, John made remarkable progress at recovering. He was discharged from the hospital and, along with a private nurse courtesy of Mycroft, was moved back into his new flat. His vision was finally improving and his speech rarely slurred. He could again understand people, although that had taken a while to return. He often lost track of what he was saying or thinking and sometimes forgot the names of everyday objects. However, it was slowly improving with time and his doctors were hopeful about his recovery. He had been amazingly lucky. Being a doctor himself, he knew the importance of health and fitness, so the medical staff had not had to contend with weight or health problems. He was the "miracle" case.

He didn't feel like a miracle. He was plagued daily by headaches and often became disoriented. At least his doctor thought there was a drug that would help the headaches. He had had to adjust his living patterns to account for the changes. After six months, if he was doing well enough, the nurse would move out and merely make bi-weekly checkups, slowly tapering off as he recovered. John could always call Mycroft if something happened.

The worst symptom, however, was not a curable one. His short-term memory of what led up to his injury was spotty at best. Sometimes he remembered he'd tried to commit suicide; most times not. The doctors had warned him that he probably would never recover the memories of the days immediately leading up to his attempt; not that John minded  _that_  Sometimes he could remember the fight against Moriarty and the events that led to Sherlock's suicide in perfect detail. Other times, he forgot that Sherlock was no longer with him. John would often talk to the missing man and those around him soon learned how to respond. He would have to be reminded that Sherlock was dead and the pain would hit full force each time. As time passed John got better at remembering Sherlock's death. Still, even the littlest things would make him forget the loss.

That's when he'd make the extra cup of tea, ask for Sherlock's opinion, bake him a cake, or wander back to 221B. This was life without Sherlock.

* * *

**A/N- All medical information is taken from research. If you know more about what is factually correct, please let me know :) I'm no medical girl, but I did the best I could!**

**Also, please remember that this is right after the Reichenbach Fall while the other stories take place in the time after. I just wanted to add some backstory to help flesh out why John is so forgetful about Sherlock :)**


	28. Chapter 28

John was a short man. By now he had accepted the fact and didn't faff about it. It hadn't always been like that, though. In school he'd been forever going on about the inevitable growth spurt he was sure was coming. He had been bullied and made fun of, mostly good-natured heckling by his friends. As he grew older he finally gave up on getting any taller and accepted his lack of inches. In the army the heckling had started again until he had proven he could hold his own. In Afghanistan, no one cared about minor things like height. When John moved in with Sherlock, he was reminded on a semi-regular basis. He wasn't sure if his flatmate did it simply for fun or if it was all an elaborate experiment to test John's resistance. Whatever it was, it had long since ceased to bother him. He grew used to his tall friend and learned to compensate around the flat. John was more aware of his height when he had a girlfriend; he still hated being shorter then them. Mary was perfect though; petite, blond, and charming. John never worried about his height anymore, except to miss Sherlock's comments. Still…he didn't miss them _that_ often.

* * *

Sherlock had always been tall for his age. That, added to by his thin frame, gave him the appearance of being taller than he actually was. When he had been in school the other boys had teased him mercilessly. Sherlock had quickly deduced that it was because they were jealous since they had not yet had their own growth spurts yet. Once he finally got tired of the teasing he delivered a blistering series of deductions detailing whose family was having scandals with whom. After that, they went out of their way to avoid him, just as he had hoped. As he grew out of his teenage years his voice deepened and he filled out into his frame, high cheekbones finally fitting his features. His thinness, however, did not change. Sherlock never wanted to waste time simply chewing food that usually didn't agree with his palate. He was rather partial to a good Chinese; the trick was finding one. When Sherlock met John he quickly realized how much height affected what he did. For example, John's shorter frame needed some compensation when jumping buildings. Over time, Sherlock made the necessary adjustments. John never noticed, although his legs probably thanked him at night for the shorter leaps. Even now without John, Sherlock still made the subconscious adjustments. He doubted he would ever stop.


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock really wasn't a messy person. He simply put an object down, noted where it was, and never felt like putting forth the effort to move it to a more appropriate place later. John was continually cleaning up when Sherlock was around. Inevitably, Sherlock would not want to search for the missing object and would yell at John. Living together was a continual passive aggressive fight. Sherlock would put something down; John would clean it up. Sherlock would find it and put it somewhere else, and John would find it again and clean it up. One place John was not allowed, though, was Sherlock's room. Sherlock had to know exactly where everything was at any given time. His room was an oasis of calm in the maelstrom of activity the rest of the flat suffered from. Living with Molly, Sherlock had not had many items to scatter. Now, moving in with Irene, Sherlock was neater than ever. He wished he could lock his drawers to ensure that Irene didn't mess up his sock-index again. If she did...he might be tempted to spread her considerable wardrobe over the bushes outside the new country house as revenge.

* * *

John had never understood how such an analytical and organized man could be so messy. Sherlock seemed to just drop things randomly around the flat with no rhyme or reason. John was continually trying to organize the explosion of  _stuff_  that Sherlock moved in with. He never quite managed and now that Sherlock was gone, John no longer visited 221B. Sherlock's room, however, was another matter: spotless and mostly bare. A few science posters graced the walls, but that was it. Sherlock had an extensive sock-index and a complex method of storing his clothes. His bed was soft and had the highest quality sheets, no doubt provided by Mycroft. Sherlock was incredibly particular about high-quality fabrics. Nothing was ever out of place in his room and John had begged the other man to treat the rest of the flat the same, to no avail. Now that John lived with Mary (who was a very tidy woman) John was at a loss for things to clean. He never thought he would have missed Sherlock for being  _messy_.


	30. Chapter 30

"Irene!" Sherlock was furious. He was starting to wonder if the freedom he gained in the country was worth the price of living with Irene. This was the  _third_  time she messed up his sock index. The first time he had gone after her wardrobe, but it had mysteriously disappeared. He had yet to deduce what she had done with it, although her outfit changed every day. Sherlock was not used to living with someone who possessed such high intelligence. John had been smart, but his knowledge lay with the medical field. Irene's lay in secrets, information, and plots. Mostly, she helped him track down Moriarty's men, but in her free time she loved to tease Sherlock.

Giving up, Sherlock stalked into the kitchen to work on an experiment. He opened the refrigerator to collect his hand samples and stared at the empty space. She would not have dared throw them out, would she? Even Mrs. Hudson wouldn't do that. His eyes picked through the contents of the fridge. No, they were definitely gone. He felt his face darken as his ire rose. "IRENE!"

She appeared in the doorway with his bag of missing hands. "Oh, Sherlock…when will you learn?" She slunk over and handed him the bag. Sherlock's hand tightened on the syringe in his pocket. Upon moving in he had immediately realized he would need to even the playing field between them and had himself for just such an emergency (or like now, when he became too annoyed). When she was in range he grabbed the bag and with his other hand stabbed her with a needle and depressed the plunger.

"Sorry, Irene. Payback." It was the same compound she had used on him once before. She swooned into his arms and he dumped her limp body onto the couch where she could safely sleep it off. He smiled to himself as he went back to his experiment. Two could play this game.

 

* * *

"Sherlock! What have you done with my computer?" John looked around the spotless flat, wondering what on earth Sherlock had done. Where was everything? Sherlock never cleaned the flat. John's missing computer, however, was normal. Often John's laptop was simply closer at hand or Sherlock did not want his computer to be traceable. John had long since ceased to berate Sherlock over this; his flatmate never listened.

Now, however, John could not find his laptop anywhere. He had checked the normal places: the bookshelf, under the piles of paper, in the kitchen cabinets. What on earth determined where Sherlock left computers was a mystery to John. The locations in which his or Sherlock's computer turned up in made no sense, although it was probably a pattern the consulting detective understood. John stood in the middle of the flat and spun in place. Where was it? The door opened and John turned. "Sherlock?"

"Mary," his girlfriend huffed, juggling bags of groceries. "Bit of help?"

"Sorry, right!" He grabbed some of the bags and carried them into the kitchen. "Have you seen Sherlock? I can't find my laptop."

"It's in the bottom desk drawer in the bedroom under your papers."

"Why on earth did Sherlock put it there?" John frowned and turned to go retrieve it. Sherlock usually left his room alone, just as John didn't enter Sherlock's room.

Mary's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Darling? Sherlock's gone remember?"

John frowned. "What? Is he out? That's normal."

"No, really gone. Moriarty, remember?" Her eyes filled with pain; she hated reminding him.

"Sherlock's fan, yes. We haven't heard from him in a while, have we?" John frowned, obviously confused by the conversation.

Mary finally gave up. Sometimes a lie was better than the truth. Anyway, John usually remembered on his own where he was and why Sherlock was gone. It was not John's fault that he had memory problems. Well, it was, but...she pushed the thought away. "He's traveling for a few days, doing casework, remember?"

John's face cleared and he pulled Mary into a dip. "Well Miss Mary, shall we enjoy our free evening?" Mary kissed him, even as her heart cried for the broken man.


	31. Chapter 31

Sherlock knew that if he saw John again, things would never be the same. Not because of John's spotty memories, but because of Sherlock. To save John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson's life, Sherlock had told the ultimate lie. He had faked his death and caused John untold pain and harm. Much as Sherlock wanted to see John again, he feared the wrath that would follow. Judging by his flatmate's response when Sherlock had once asked to be punched, coming back would be far worse.

Still, Sherlock often thought of the day that he would see John again. The day that Moriarty's network would tear like tissue paper. The day that his friends would finally be safe. The day he could come home. There were so many different ways that day could go. That John would be angry and hurt was a given. Whether he would still want Sherlock around was a question that bothered the detective more than he would admit, even to himself. John would probably see Sherlock's actions as a betrayal of trust. He would not understand that it was the only way Sherlock knew to keep John safe. He would not understand why Sherlock had not simply told him; let him help. He did not understand Moriarty like Sherlock did.

Sherlock thought back to words spoken long ago, " _I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you._ " He was prepared to lie to the only people he cared about in his life in order to save them. He had made the ultimate sacrifice. He still wondered if there was something else he could have done, something  _more_ , to save everyone pain. He had never dreamed the effect his actions would have on his only friends.  _Sentiment_ …he thought. But was it not sentiment that had driven him to save them? He could have sacrificed them at the cost of killing Moriarty and saving himself.

If Sherlock had sacrificed his friends he would have no fight with John to dread. At the same time, Sherlock was perversely looking forward to the fight with John because it meant that they would be together again. Sherlock would stand for all the fights in the world if it meant seeing his three friends again. Since when did those simple minds and bodies become so precious to him?

* * *

John often thought back to that day – that day when Sherlock had jumped. He replayed the events leading up to his flatmate's suicide again and again, picking it over for any detail he may have missed. The conversation and images were permanently ingrained, haunting his every step. What could he have said, what could he have done? Was there anything he could have done differently? Was it just a sudden harebrained idea of Sherlock, that suicide was the best way out, or was Sherlock actually depressed? Had John missed the signs or simply pushed them away, thinking that Sherlock was just being Sherlock? John never ceased to think of questions he had no answer for.

More than anything, John regretted his actions toward Sherlock right before the…fall. Those terrible words circle his mind, taunting him:  _You machine! Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own._  The disbelief and betrayal at Sherlock's blasé acceptance of Mrs. Hudson's treatment was clear. Sherlock's answer was cool and emotionless:  _Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._ It was a tone John had only heard Sherlock use when working on a case, complete control and disinterest. The realization had riled John more than he had thought and his answer was hissed:  _No. Friends protect people._ With that he had slammed the door and fought against his panic, trying not to think of what he would do if Mrs. Hudson died.

Looking back, John realized that Sherlock's actions were completely out of character. John knew without a doubt that Sherlock had loved Mrs. Hudson. He often gave her a hug and a kiss and endured her mothering…to a point. John could not fathom the reason behind such a close camaraderie between two such unlikely individuals. Perhaps it was Mrs. Hudson's longing for a son and Sherlock's longing for a mother—well, as close as Sherlock would ever get to something called longing. Whatever the case, Sherlock would have never stood by while his landlady was dying.

At the time, John had not been thinking properly. Upon arriving and finding the elderly woman perfectly safe, John realized with a sinking feeling that he had been duped. Sherlock must have planned for that phone call. What Sherlock was doing once he got rid of John, scared the small man. Sherlock would do something without thinking of the consequences, something to get back at Moriarty.

Even in John's wildest dreams, he would never have guessed that Sherlock would kill himself. So John kept reliving that day, over and over, and imagining what he would have done differently. If only Sherlock were still alive…if only John could see him again…if only…if only… John's mind was a maze he could not escape.


	32. Chapter 32

Losing someone wasn't something you could describe or put a name to. It was just something you felt. John had seen people die despite his best efforts: soldiers, patients, and friends. Still, nothing was like the pain of losing your best friend — and not from disease or because of another person, but suicide. Sherlock had decided that death was a better alternative to life, despite those who loved him. How could that man, with his fantastic brain, not see how much they cared? What drove him to think that death was the better way out? It wasn't Moriarty; John knew. Sherlock found the man a fascinating problem or an inconvenient villain, but never worth giving up for. If anything, Sherlock would see that as giving in; letting Moriarty know he'd won in his quest after Sherlock.

John knew that Sherlock wasn't a fake, no matter what he had said on the phone. That phone call…John buried his face in his hands, trying to shake away the conversation.  _"This phone call, it's...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note..."_  The words echoed through his head. " _Goodbye, John…_ " John took a deep breath, feeling sick. His eyes stung with held-back tears. His heart ached and he wondered how long he could keep this up. He tried to make his eyes focus.

The minister droned on in front of Sherlock's closed casket. The words cascaded over John, meaning nothing. He did not want to be here at this funeral. He had not wanted to attend but Mrs. Hudson needed someone with her and Lestrade looked horrible. He sat between the two and felt like he was suffocating. If he could hold out just a little longer…

"Sherlock Holmes had the brain of a genius. He used that intelligence to help many people. Even people with the best intentions can stray off the path, however, and this is what happened to Sherlock." John clenched his fists, wanting to punch the man in the face. How could he say something like this at the funeral? New Scotland Yard was still digging for information about whether Donovan's claims were valid or not, but Sherlock's suicide had pretty much sealed it. "Still, whatever path Holmes had chosen," the minister continued, "all people are equal in the eyes of God. Let us hope he has found peace in the next life."

John stood, no longer able to contain himself. Mrs. Hudson pulled at his arm but he ignored her. "Sherlock Holmes was a great man!" he yelled, voice echoing through the silence. "You're wrong about him. He was never a fraud. I should know—" he half choked on hysterical laughter, "I lived with him. He was bloody insufferable at times but that didn't make him a fake. He was a genius! He saved so many people and never wanted recognition or reward. How many of you go home safe at night because of him?" The crowd shifted uncomfortably.

"You think he made up every petty and dangerous criminal in London? You all hated him—still do, I'm sure—but he didn't care. He kept helping because we  _needed_ him. I needed him…and now he's gone, and it's your fault." His eyes swept over the people around him, accusing each in turn. Mrs. Hudson was crying and he put a hand on her shoulder; she had never doubted Sherlock. Lestrade turned his face away, ashamed. "IT'S YOUR FAULT HE'S DEAD!" John was shaking now, unable to keep the rage and hurt at bay any longer. He turned and pinned Lestrade with a blazing glare, giving him no choice but to look back. "Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and a  _good_  one." He took one last breath and said, "I believe in Sherlock Holmes!"

Unable to stay in the oppressive room any longer, John fled. He held back the tears when he hailed a cab. He held them back when he directed the cab to Saint Bart's. Why he was torturing himself like this, he did not know. When the cab arrived he paid the driver and walked to where he had been standing when Sherlock was on the roof. The building edge was empty now and the sidewalk washed clean of blood. John closed his eyes and once again that terrible scene played out in his head.

Sherlock on the roof. His insistent voice, asking John to watch him. For those few precious seconds, on the phone, Sherlock had been alive. As Sherlock fell, the image playing ghostly in John's mind, he was alive. John took slow steps forward, forcing himself to see again the place where Sherlock had landed. Maybe there was something he had missed, something he could deduce like Sherlock. Something that would bring his best friend back to life. Then Sherlock hit the ground and he was dead dead dead and there was blood and those empty eyes and his dark curls were soaked and his fancy clothes were ruined, but it didn't matter because he was dead, he was dead, he was dead… and of course there was no clue. It was no trick. There was no simple solution. There was no way Sherlock had survived.

John felt the tears starting to slip down his cheeks and he turned away from the hospital, walking blindly, looking for privacy. His feet led him down Little Britain and then Montague until he stopped in front of Postman's park. It was empty and John was grateful. He pushed through the gates and walked slowly under the trees, trying to get a hold of his emotions. In the middle of the park he stopped at the little fountain and leaned on the black fence surrounding it. The water burbled softly and a fish slid under a water lily, but otherwise only the wind kept him company. The sound of traffic was distant, cutting John off from the world. The tears finally started falling, but John did nothing to stop them. When he faced the grave later, he would be strong, for Sherlock. But here, there was no Sherlock, so John let himself be what he was: a grieving, broken man who had just lost his world because of another's selfish action.

* * *

Sherlock did not let himself bother with  _emotions_ , but right now he was coming dangerously close. He had locked himself in his room at Mycroft's (who had refused to attend the funeral) and was watching his computer screen intently. He paid no attention to who attended, although he wished Mrs. Hudson had stayed home instead. She would probably go stay with her sister for a while; he would have to make sure Mycroft kept an eye on her and that she was provided for. No, Sherlock's attention was fixed on John. His flatmate sat between Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, staring sightlessly ahead. He seemed to pay little mind to the minister who was prattling along the politically correct route of how to call someone dead a fake.

John clenched his fists and his face tightened, eyes turning flinty. He must have reacted to something the minister said, although Sherlock hadn't bothered to listen. His muscles tensed up and a vein throbbed in his temple. Sherlock had insisted that Mycroft install the highest tech camera available before the funeral so he could watch his friend closely. John unconsciously shifted his weight and took deeper breaths, as he always did when he was about to start yelling.

Then he was standing and angry. Mrs. Hudson was pulling on his arm, probably trying to keep him from making a fool of himself. Sherlock grimaced; whatever John was about to say would only get him into trouble. "Sherlock Holmes was a great man!" John yelled. "You're wrong about him. He was never a fraud." Sherlock's breath hissed through his teeth; that idiot! He would only attract the attention of Moriarty's men if he kept going on about how Sherlock had survived. Sherlock needed his flatmate to believe his death more than anyone. John could not have possibly seen how he had survived…

John was still speaking. "…He was a genius! He saved so many people and never wanted recognition or reward." Of course Sherlock didn't want recognition. What was the good of that? He knew how dangerous the media was; look at what had happened when he had gone public? He had hated the need to make an image of himself for the public; hated playing Moriarty's game. "You all hated him", John continued, "—still do, I'm sure—but he didn't care. He kept helping. Because we  _needed_ him. I needed him. And now he's gone and it's your fault." Well, technically it was not their fault. The blame could be placed squarely on Moriarty for threatening his friends. There was a reason Sherlock didn't believe in friends or sentiment. They were simply a means of controlling a man. John, however, did not see it that way. Of course he would not. He probably blamed himself, despite having done nothing.

John put a hand on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder to comfort her. "IT'S YOUR FAULT HE'S DEAD!" Sherlock could see John's body trembling; trying to control his soldier's instincts to fight against the thing that was hurting him. There was nothing here for him to fight, only rumors and hurt feelings. John turned and glared at Lestrade, who oozed guilt at the weight of John's gaze. "Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and a  _good_  one."  _A good man? I, Sherlock, a good man?_  Is this how John really thought of him? But John had one last thing to say. It rang out; clear and strong, with truth in every word. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes!" With that, he fled the room.

Sherlock watched him till he disappeared off the camera and sat back in his chair. John's final words rang through his mind. " _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_." Sherlock decided that he did not have to worry about whether John believed his suicide; it was obvious he did. What his flatmate refused to accept though, was that his friend was a fake. Knowing John, he would tell everyone who would listen all the reasons Sherlock was who he said he had been. That small, mild mannered man, with the string of girlfriends and the jumpers, and the taste for toast with jam, could start a rebellion on conviction alone. Sherlock had never realized what a remarkable man John was on his own, or how much he missed his friend. Perhaps…perhaps it was time to accept that his heart was not made of ice. Perhaps, sometimes…emotions weren't a bad thing. Perhaps…Sherlock was very, very proud of John.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I doubt anyone is still reading this, but if you were I sincerely apologize. Frankly, I forgot I was uploading this here. I'll put the rest of the story up so if anyone comes across this again, it will be finished.  
> \--------

Sherlock actually had quite a taste of poetry. John had found him once, pouring over a book of poems, the flat peaceful for once.

_“Sherlock, what are you doing?”_

_Absorbed in a particular poem, Sherlock paid his flatmate little mind until the question was repeated. He looked up, words still dancing before his eyes. “I’m reading, John. Isn’t it obvious or are you blind to simple actions?”_

_John sighed. “It’s obvious you’re reading, but_ why _?”_

_“Because, John, I enjoy poetry. Knowledge is power and although I might not store these poems in my memory, it is still good to be familiar with the art of it.”_

_“But the fact that the Earth goes ‘round the Sun isn’t important?” John shook his head at Sherlock._

_“The Earth goes ‘round the Sun,” he parroted. “I have stored some basic astronomy, if simply to get you off my back.”_

_John narrowed his eyes in disbelief. “What is the order of the planets from the Sun out?”_

_“Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto—if you count it as a planet.”_

_“How did the Universe start?”_

_“Most popular accepted theory to be the Big Bang, although different religions state otherwise.”_

_“How do you find the North star?”_

_“By looking at the Big Dipper and following the edge of the “cup” upwards to the brightest star. However, this was not, and in thousands of years will not, be our North star due to the planet’s swivel on it’s axis in a circle. Also, the seasons are not affected by how close or far the Earth is from the Sun, but the position of its rays as they hit the Earth. Need me to go on?” Sherlock threw John a smug look. He had actually done quite a bit of reading on the subject, although he still considered it useless knowledge. He would not give John a reason to mock his lack of intelligence in that blasted blog again._

_“Touché,” John had laughed, impressed. “You now know at least some basic information about our solar. Most people would consider it important.”_

_Sherlock snorted. “Most people…” before burying his nose back in his book._

_John had sidled over, trying to peak at the page. “What poem?”_

_Sherlock had sighed and closed the book, shutting off John’s view. Seeing that his flatmate would not be deterred, he recited:_

  
“Do not stand at my grave and weep  
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die.

_“It’s by Mary Elizabeth Frye,” he finished._

_John was staring at him, mouth open. Sherlock glared and he snapped it shut. “Sorry,” John said sheepishly, “I didn’t think you liked that kind of poetry. It’s so…emotional.” He gave Sherlock a queer look._

_Sherlock shrugged and looked away. “It is beauty and art; nothing wrong with that.”_

Now, Sherlock held open the small book of poems and flipped the pages, not bothering to read the contents. He had long ago memorized them. They had not been of use to him yet, but there were enough cases connected to art that he might one day need to be able to fit into the art society. Having a broad knowledge of poetry and literature would be an asset. Still, that poem…he genuinely liked that poem, although he would be loathe to admit it to John.

oOo

Two months after retrieving the Cluedo board John returned to 221B. He had been promising Mrs. Hudson he would come visit her, but kept putting it off, not wanting to face the rush of memories he knew would occur. Finally, his better side had won out and he had gone over for tea. It had not been as bad as he had thought. When he was getting ready to leave though, he made a split second decision and unlocked the door to his and Sherlock’s flat. He still had the key, unable to bear parting with the reminder of his friend. John took a deep breath and walked into the flat. It was a perfectly preserved moment in time of another life. Mrs. Hudson kept it clean and fresh still, despite its lack of inhabitants. John turned in a slow circle. “Sherlock?” he asked the empty room. It seemed as if Sherlock’s voice would answer from his bedroom, or maybe the consulting detective would burst in; wild haired and wild eyed. Of course, only silence answered the lonely man. 

John walked around the room, touching the furniture and objects, grounding himself in the here and now. By the fireplace something crinkled under his foot and he looked down. A small piece of yellowing paper lay folded on the floor. He looked up; there was nothing except the stab mark in the wall from where the Cluedo board had lived. He picked up the paper and turned it over. _John_ , in Sherlock’s tidy handwriting graced one side. John felt his heart lift, an unknown hope filling his chest as he unfolded it. It read:

_John, I am sorry. Remember us, here._

_Do not stand at my grave and weep_   
I am not there. I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die. 

_Goodbye, John._

John felt his eyes burn as tears abruptly filled them and he clenched the paper in one hand, wiping his eyes fiercely with the other. It was the poem; that bloody poem that Sherlock had once recited. Now, it’s aptness filled the empty flat and the air seemed to dance with Sherlock’s deep voice, repeating the melodic lines. Sherlock must have decided he would commit suicide—rather than making a sudden choice as John had thought before. He must have realized that John would be hurt. First the CD and now this. For all that Sherlock claimed he was a sociopath, John was learning otherwise. Sherlock was simply a man, a man who cared about his only friend.


	34. Chapter 34

**_Suggested by painxsmile_ **

 

John had never understood the relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft. When he had first discovered they were brothers he thought that it was simply Sherlock’s attitude that caused the distance between them. Over time, John learned different. The small childhood fights had turned into a full-blown war between the two brothers. What exactly had been the last straw that drove the men to such hatred, John did not want to know. Sherlock rarely mentioned his brother except to complain. Mycroft had a power complex, “kidnapping” John at the most inconvenient times and demanding information about Sherlock. John’s reply was usually a cool, “Ask him yourself”. John refused to bow to the intimidation tactics. Thwarted, Mycroft would look down his nose and make some derogatory comment about Sherlock’s personality.

 

After discovering that Mycroft had given Moriarty Sherlock’s history, the small man had been furious. He refused to talk to Mycroft, despite the British official’s calls. After Sherlock’s suicide, his hatred had increased tenfold. Finally, Mycroft must have gotten fed up because he sent a car to escort John, “unconscious, if needed,” to his estate. John had verbally torn Mycroft to pieces before breaking down in tears. Mycroft had sat through the abuse silently before answering.

 

“John…I know you are upset about Sherlock. Please listen. Did you ever ask Sherlock about the details of that story?” John had shaken his head. “Did Sherlock seem even particularly worried?”

 

“No, but—”

 

Mycroft held up a hand. “When you talked to me about this last, I had to lie. Sherlock and I had already discussed it. He said he had something planned. I believed him and I helped him.” Mycroft rubbed his face. “When he committed suicide…I never saw that coming. I don’t know what changed. He seemed so sure that he had a plan. It must have been Moriarty; something changed his mind.”

 

“What do you mean, you had to lie?” John’s eyes betrayed his doubt.

 

“What was published about Sherlock…it wasn’t all true. Most of it was, yes, but not all of it. There was lies, clever little bits of information miss fed to Moriarty. Details that, if someone did some digging, they would find to be false. When Moriarty agreed to talk in exchange for information, I contacted Sherlock and asked what he thought. Sherlock said I should give him the information he asked for, but…twisted. He assured me he didn’t mind and had a plan.”

 

“Wouldn’t Mycroft have noticed the information was twisted?”

 

Mycroft laughed dryly. “Why should he? I played my part well. He swallowed every word and then fed it back to that reporter. What I did, I did for my brother, not out of spite or hate. And now that he’s gone…” His face fell. “I hate to think that people believe that story.”

 

“Then why don’t you do the digging? Point out the faults? Prove it wrong?” John said with righteous anger.

 

“Believe me, I wish I could.” His face twisted with an unknown emotion. “What I do, I do for Sherlock. He made a lot of enemies that are being held at bay both by his death and by his fall from the social limelight. It is hard to hate someone who “got what was coming”. If these details are proven wrong and Sherlock is once again accepted as a genius…certain people may feel the need to exact their revenge on someone else. Namely, his family and friends.” Mycroft looked pointedly at John.

 

John’s face fell. “You really care for Sherlock, don’t you?”

 

Mycroft noticed the present tense but did not comment. “We may not have believed in sentiment, but Sherlock is my brother. Of course I cared about him.” Mycroft’s mouth twisted around the foreign words, but John did not notice. “Do you remember when I said that Sherlock once wanted to be a pirate?”

 

“Yeah?” John smiled at the thought.

 

“Before that he wanted to be Superman so he could examine objects with X-Ray vision.”

 

John laughed. “That doesn’t even sound like him!”

 

“He was an odd child, I’ll give you that. So particular about everything. Did you ever try to make him a birthday cake?”

 

“Gosh, yes. Worst mistake of my life.” He rolled his eyes. “I have _you_ to thank for that!”

 

Mycroft held up his hands in appeasement. “Sorry! The story behind that is…”

 

This was a side of Mycroft John had never seen before. He was obviously upset by his brother’s death and now he was trading stories, friendly and hospitable. Perhaps the loss of his brother had softened him. John liked to think that maybe Mycroft had changed; that the Holmes brothers _were_ capable of emotion. If only it had not taken Sherlock’s loss to show it…he shook his head and focused on Mycroft’s story again. His anger against Mycroft was obviously misplaced and he was not one to hold a grudge.

oOo

Sherlock had tried multiple times to deduce the relationship between John and Harry, to no avail. The two siblings were like orbiting stars, swinging in and out of each other’s light, sometimes with explosive results. One moment John would be cursing Harry’s drinking habits that had gotten her into trouble _again_ , the next day he would be out visiting her and come home pleased as punch. Still, the relationship between the two remained strained at best. John obviously loved Harry, but not enough to accept her help despite the number of times she had offered it.

 

Sherlock had never said more than a few words to Harry. When he asked John once if Harry would ever be visiting and if he could get a blood sample from the two siblings, John had turned him down flat, promising that his wayward sister was never entering their flat. He was good on his word; in all the time Sherlock had spent with his flatmate, Harry had never once made an appearance in 221B. Outside their flat, however, was another matter. John and Harry often met for tea or drinks to trade stories; John to complain about Sherlock and Harry to complain about her job or Clara’s lack of affection. Sherlock had been dragged with on a few of these occasions, usually when Harry was unexpectedly in town for the day and texted her brother.

 

After the first meeting, in which Sherlock’s scathing remarks managed to rankle the woman despite being on her third martini, John had forbid Sherlock from speaking to her. Sherlock was happy enough to sit quietly, mulling over a recent case or new theory. John and Harry would drone on, providing a soft murmur to the background of Sherlock’s thoughts. Although the consulting detective would never admit it, he enjoyed watching the brother and sister duo, so alike yet so different. John and Harry had similar features, the same way of tilting their head, and eyes that sparked when they hit on a topic of interest. Yet, where John was kind and calm, Harry was loud and wild.

 

Now that Sherlock was dead to John, the small man spent a lot of time with his sister. Mycroft kept Sherlock updated periodically on their going ons if they met in a public area accessible by cameras. The older Holmes also had one of his men check on John’s sister periodically, making sure she was no threat to John’s safety, both physically and mentally. Surprisingly, Harry was off the booze and was sticking to it. John was always so proud of her, Sherlock wondered if Harry did not want to disappoint her brother when he was suffering so much from his best friend’s suicide. Whatever the reason, Sherlock decided that the brother and sister were closer because of his death. For John, that was a good thing. For Sherlock…he was not sure.


	35. Chapter 35

**_A/N- Partially inspired by weirdnessunleashed_ **

****

_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes._

  
The words boldly graced the wall, covering the previous graffiti. John stood and looked at it for a long time, thinking. It must have been one of the people who had heard his speech at the funeral. John gave a half smile to the writing and continued on his way, putting the image out of his mind.  
  
A week later there was another message, _Moriarty Is Real_ , was scrawled on the wall by the train station. John had frowned and looked around, as if someone would be standing by ready to explain. He had finally left, brow furrowed.  


The third time he saw the graffiti it read: _Fighting John Watson’s War_. The use of his name made him stop, his train of thought derailed. War? What war? For a moment his mind jumped to Afghanistan but he banished the thought. Why would someone use his name in the graffiti? Was it supporting Sherlock?

 

Apparently it was, because further down the wall, in smaller letters, was scrawled _Sherlock Was Not a Fake_. Curious now, John searched through the graffiti covering this stretch of wall and found similar messages, some half painted over. It seemed like he was not the only one who believed in his friend. Feeling lighter than he had for days, John kept walking.  
  
The instances became more common as the week progressed. It was almost frightening how quickly they spread. The messages were showing up everywhere there was graffiti and more where there was not. Walking to 221B, John saw a message scrawled across a heart with wings that read IOU. Probably an unnoticed message from Moriarty long ago. It was hard to make out now, though, because a large spider had been sprayed over the top of it with the words _Moriarty Was a Spider_.  
  
Soon it was not just graffiti. Pamphlets with prints of Sherlock and tear off tabs saying, “I believe” began appearing on every flat surface available. Once John saw a tee shirt sporting the Moriarty slogan. Upon calling Greg, the man answered in a strained voice that the movement had become too big for the police to contain. Those who were participating were smart, keeping their heads down and avoiding trouble. They could do nothing against the tee shirt wearers, as there was no proof they were doing anything more than declaring a fashion statement. “Don’t get me wrong,” Lestrade had said, “I bloody want to join them. You started a revolution, you know, with that speech of yours at the funeral. So take pride because the world is noticing Sherlock and they want him back.”  
  
If only Sherlock could come back. Still, John appreciated the campaign London seemed to have taken to heart. People would recognize him on the street and come up to him, saying “I believe,” or touching him on the shoulder before moving on. Over time, angry store clerks took down the posters and the graffiti on the important buildings was scrubbed away. London slowly lost interest in the detective as nothing new was found in the investigation about Moriarty and Richard Brook. The man had played his cards well; making sure his actor persona was real in every way.  
  
As people again started ignoring John, the man drew into himself. He was alone in his devotion and trust to Sherlock. What point was there in living when everyone hated Sherlock and John was simply the wallflower to be pitied? It was these times that John sank into deep depression and considered the bullet that would end his pain. His life, once so colorful with Sherlock, was sliding into shades of monotone.

  
When John pulled the trigger that put him in the hospital for months, he did not know that London had not forgotten about Sherlock. It had simply holding its breath, the calm before the storm. Those behind the movement were waiting for the citywide demonstration and wanted as little attention as possible. The stage was set and plans were in place for the “big reveal”, but upon learning of John’s depression and suicide attempt, the demonstration was moved up. Shirts and armbands were handed out, spray paint cans were purchased to write messages of support for Sherlock, flyers were printed, and tactics were discussed in small cafes. When London woke the morning of the demonstration, it was in for a shock.  
  
Messages were everywhere. Sherlock’s homeless network had organized most of the graffiti, able to move without detection through the night. Many storeowners had agreed to let the supporters decorate their windows with washable paint. An article was written for the newspaper and a few certain individuals ensured it appeared on the first page. Some of the newscasters who were participating started off their reports with the main slogan, _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_. Nearly everyone seemed to be sporting a tee shirt or black armband. The door to 221B was plastered with posters and the steps were overflowing with flowers. The same occurred at Sherlock’s grave and outside St. Bart’s. A small donation collected by the supporters was left for Mrs. Hudson as compensation for any inconvenience she suffered, as well as a variety of notes stating their belief and support.

 

New Scotland Yard was flooded with emails, letters, and phone calls berating them for the lack of progress on the investigation. Thousands of letters were delivered to John, who was still under anesthetic in the hospital, along with an overwhelming number of flowers. Unsure of what to do with the letters, the hospital let them pile up in a back room until Mycroft took the initiative and picked them up. The flowers, he had suggested, should be enjoyed by the all the patients and were soon passed throughout the hospital. Still, John’s condition remained critical as the movement was stirred into a frenzy. Protestors, no longer staying underground, appeared outside New Scotland Yard and had to be forced back. Heaven knows how, but they managed to hang giant banners that said _We Believe_ from many of the main buildings in London. The furious companies quickly took them down, but the point had been made. London believed in Sherlock Holmes and they wanted something done about it.  
  
When John awoke and started to improve, he was not told of the events for fear of his delicate condition and Mycroft made no mention of the letters. Once John moved into his old flat, Mycroft made sure no one bothered the man. Fortunately for John, he stayed in all the time as he worked on adjusting to normal life again. By the time John was out and about again, the protest had died down and been contained, its members gone underground again. They still bubbled under the surface though, and messages popped up here and there. The group watched John’s recovery with avid interest and John would often find a flower or small token on his doorstep, much to his confusion. It quickly circulated through the ranks that John’s memory was spotty after his recovery, so no mention was made to him about his best friend’s suicide. Still, the flowers continued and the movement planned their next big move. London would not forget them quickly.

oOo

When Sherlock first heard of the movement supporting his innocence, he paid little attention. What did it matter to him what people thought? He had not really committed suicide from shame. Sherlock worried about his flatmate, focusing on how he handled the loss. John, however, seemed to appreciate London’s efforts, smiling once or twice and seeming happier after seeing the messages. They must mean something to John, something Sherlock did not understand. The messages were just words. Perhaps John did not want to be alone in his belief in Sherlock’s abilities. Sherlock wished that John would accept the story he had been fed: that Sherlock was a fraud.

 

Sherlock worried continuously about Moriarty’s network and the men that would inevitably be watching John for a long time, just in case Sherlock had somehow managed to dupe them all. John’s rebellion against Sherlock’s fall from grace might be taken as a sign that he did not believe Sherlock’s death. The thought both cheered Sherlock and made his heart sink. He liked to think that deep down, John knew that Sherlock had lied. They had lived together for eighteen months; surely John had faith in Sherlock. Still, with each passing day, John accepted his friend was gone and started to protest less when someone insisted Sherlock had been a fraud. Did John really trust him so little? Sherlock wrestled with these questions, glued to his computer day after day as he tracked John’s movements.

 

When the supporters staged their big movement, Sherlock was catatonic and missed it. When he awoke, he alternately spent time checking on John in the hospital or throwing himself into a frenzy of work, hunting down Moriarty’s men. The next time the underground arose; Sherlock had gone away to America. Upon his return he saw some of the signs still proudly peeking through quick scrubbed walls or fresh paint. He speculated who was leading this movement, who believed in him so deeply. His mind wandered to the fan that often posted on John’s blog and a smile slipped across his lips. Jacob Sowersby, he recalled. Yes, he would be crazy enough to put this revolution together.

 

Then Sherlock dove back into the whirlwind of cases and clues, forgery and scandals, murder and mystery. The messages appeared and disappeared through London, unnoticed by the man they were supporting. When Sherlock moved to the country with Irene, he effectively moved himself out of the movement’s range. Mycroft did not tell Sherlock of the many letters that still arrived at his “grave” or of the notes to John. Sherlock would not care and, for John, the emotional danger was too great until his memory improved.

 

One day, perhaps, the movement would get their wish and Sherlock’s name would be cleared. One day their hero might return. Whether the ill-fated hero would appreciate or understand their devotion remained to be seen. The underground had no idea that they may one day see Sherlock again, but that would not deter them. The slogans continued to appear and the message slowly spread across the country: _We believe in Sherlock Holmes._


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N- Suggested by sevenpercent, thank you!**

John looked in the mirror and thought, as he did every morning. What would Sherlock deduce from looking at him now? Would he see the gray hairs that had not been there before? John’s eyes had a new hardness to them, pain lurking at the edges of his gaze. His brow seemed to be constantly furrowed. His frame was slumped, losing its military proudness. His psychosomatic limp appeared whenever he remembered that Sherlock was dead.

 

John sighed and turned away from the mirror. For once, John was glad Sherlock was dead so he never had to see how far his only friend had fallen. Today was one of John’s “good” days—well, “good” in that his memories were not betraying him. He fought against his mind every day, battling himself and the repercussions of his actions. How Mary dealt with him every day, he did not know. He still suffered from bouts of depression and had a variety of pills to control his emotions as well as the lasting effects of his head wound.

John was not the same man he had once been. He had been broken and the only person who could help him was dead. Sometimes John wished he had never met Sherlock, never put his life on the track it had taken. Then John would come to and berate himself for thinking such things. He would not have traded those 18 months with Sherlock for the world. For one shining moment in time, John had been captured in Sherlock’s magnetic pull, overawed by the world seen through his friend’s eyes. As Mycroft had once said, “ _When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield._ ” It was a sight John had longed for after the war. Now, John simply missed Sherlock and all their unbelievable adventures.

 

If Sherlock saw him now and had to sum up his deductions in a single word, it would be “lonely”.

oOo

Sherlock observed his reflection and frowned. His dark curls had been cropped short and his hair was light blonde. It did not match his skin tone, making him look washed out and unnatural. How many aliases had he taken on by now? How many false names and backgrounds? Who was he now? His mind was becoming cluttered with the many personas and the strain to act like a normal person of average intelligence, to fit in. How many times had he cut and dyed his hair, put in contacts, and done his best to disguise his sharp features?

 

He was traveling more often with Mycroft’s help on passports and forms, hunting down Moriarty’s men. Sebastian Moran, Mycroft’s second in command, was a thorn in his side that he could not pin down. The man always managed to slither away. Still, he was steadily unraveling the spider’s web, one individual strand at a time. He hoped that if he cut away enough of the base, the top of the hierarchy would come crumbling down.

 

The city changed every few days or weeks, depending on how fast Sherlock could track down his prey. Over time Sherlock collected a variety of scrapes and scars, marring the once smooth skin. Then, a trap he had failed to see landed him in a foreign hospital with massive chemical burns. Extensive surgery and skin grafting had to be done. He knew Mycroft was involved in the level of care he received as well as protecting his identity. When he awoke, his skin was new and hypersensitive, causing overwhelming pain. His heightened sensitivity was working against him and the doctors agreed to keep him drugged until the skin had healed more completely. The new skin was smooth and soft, although not his own. He was assured that over time it would slough off as his natural skin replaced it. Sherlock would be left free of scars and burns; many that he had lived with his entire life. It was like being remade, a new shape being twisted over the old.

 

Would John even recognize him now? Would he see him as the same man he had known so long ago? Sherlock worried, actually _worried_ , that over the years of secrets, disguises, and single-minded determination, he had lost who he had once been. How would John act around him now? What would he think of Sherlock’s new personality? Hunting down criminals did not come without a price and Sherlock had been captured many times. Each time left his spirit more battered and broken than before. He could not give up, though; he had to keep trying for John. Would his new appearance surprise John? His hair would grow back, but he was thinner than ever before. Irene, who often traveled with him, kept a sharp eye on his physical health. She worried that Sherlock would run himself into the ground without a rest. She often refused to let him leave where they were staying until he ate or drank _something_.

 

As the days, months, and years slipped by, Sherlock continued to change. The more he changed, the more he realized that he was losing himself. One day, he was afraid he would wake up and not recognize the man in the mirror.


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N- Inspired by weirdnessunleashed!**

 

John was on his way back to the flat from shopping when he saw the poster. A circus was coming to town. He shuddered, hoping Sherlock did not insist that John take Mary to check “… _if the members were from a gang or mafia. We can never be to careful after what the Chinese pulled!”_ John shook Sherlock’s voice away. After the disastrous experience last time, he never wanted to visit a circus again. John unlocked his door and steeled his resolve, in case Sherlock felt like fighting his decision.

 

“Sherlock? I don’t care how important it is, we are _not_ visiting a circus again.”

 

“A circus?” Mary popped out of their bedroom, putting in her earrings. “Oh, John, can we go? I’ve always wanted to see a circus!”

 

“No, no, Sherlock will want to come, or it will end in a murder attempt.” John shook his head emphatically.

 

Mary’s eyes saddened and she touched John’s shoulder gently. “Sherlock’s gone, darling. I think it’s safe to go.”

 

John frowned in confusion and then his face fell as he again remembered exactly why Sherlock was missing. “Right…of course. Well, if you really want to…” John closed his eyes and rubbed his face, as if he would wipe his traitorous memories away. Mary kissed his cheek in excitement and he smiled tightly, heading to the computer to buy tickets. He would not let her see how much the idea disagreed with him. John loved her, so he would live through the bloody circus.

 

That evening, John could not enjoy the show. Sherlock’s missing form made him ache for his friend. He kept trying to track each performer; on edge that one would soon try to attack them. His mind played tricks on him and superimposed a different circus with another girl, another man, and a death-defying act. John shifted, unable to concentrate on the trapeze artists in front of him. Mary glanced at John, looking to share her excitement, and started. John was hyperventilating and his eyes were glazed. Heart dropping, she gathered their belongings and dragged him outside where she hailed a cab. John was doll-like, not registering his surroundings. Mary hissed a curse under her breath. _Not now…please not now._

 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice broke. “Sherlock, no! Save her!” He was lost in long ago memories, blind to the present.

 

“Come on John, it’s ok. Hang in there…” Once home, Mary pressed a cup of tea into John’s hands and sat down next to her boyfriend. She spoke softly, apologizing for reminding him of painful memories even though her words did not register to John. His doctor had explained to Mary that anything, even a simple object or word, could set off old traumatic memories. After John’s suicide attempt his memory and response were affected. He would often stop, lost in the past, unable to escape till the memory had run its course.

 

“Mary?” She jumped. John had come back to reality while she was lost in thought. He looked at her forlornly. “I don’t want to go to the circus again.”

 

His girlfriend pulled him into a hug and kissed him firmly. “Never again,” she promised. “Never again.”

000

Sherlock could feel regret, although it was rare. He regretted John being captured, both by Moriarty and by the Chinese smuggling ring. Mycroft had just informed Sherlock, who was in Russia, what had happened to John. Why would that bloody idiot visit a circus after what happened last time? Sherlock felt regret and guilt—such a base _human_ emotion—that John had suffered because of his actions. John’s girlfriend had almost died that long ago night in Sherlock’s quest to solve a case. John himself had been battered and bruised after his capture, but the psychological scars had lasted much longer. He had not been able to sleep for weeks. Sherlock had quickly put the event out of his mind, but John was still affected, even now.

 

Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered what he could have done differently. Going to the circus had been an integral part of the case. John and Sarah being captured was unplanned, a hitch in his otherwise perfect plan. Sherlock vowed that if—when—he returned, he would never take John to a circus again—even for a case.

 

Sherlock did not often pick up on social cues or care about people’s feelings, but John was different. John was his only true friend, the one person Sherlock cared about enough to change his actions. John was the reason Sherlock was in Russia, hunting down Moriarty’s men. John was the reason Sherlock was studying neuroscience, trying to come up with some theories that would help John’s memories.

 

John was the reason Sherlock kept fighting.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed a little change of pace. This is set sometime in the eighteen months that the two shared a flat, BEFORE the Reichenbach Fall.

Sherlock’s face was framed by the light of the fire, softening the sharp lines of his chin. His eyes sparkled with an inner brilliance, seeming to change color on their own. His dark hair curled wildly, refusing to bend to a single style. His smooth skin looked warm from the fire’s glow rather than pale. His lanky form was draped over his chair; perfect beauty in stillness. His muscles were lean, hardened from years of running and fighting. His hands were steepled beneath his chin, a sure sign that he was thinking. His full lips were parted as if he were on the verge of speaking. His tight clothes hugged his form, accentuating his grace rather than his thinness.

 

This was the man that John loved. He gazed at Sherlock with a glowing sense of pride. That he was privileged enough to be this man’s friend…it was an honor higher than any he could have received in the army. John worried about Sherlock constantly and fought with the man most days, but deep down he never really minded. He always forgave his friend, letting himself be dragged into another harebrained adventure. Sherlock had a magnetism that drew John, a force that was growing over time. John riled when people insulted Sherlock, wanting to lash out and protect his friend. That Sherlock did not seem to care made it worse. Still, it was a one man battle John was not about to lose.

 

On nights like this, however, John was happy to sit in silence for hours with his flatmate. Armed with a warm cup of tea and a hot fire, John would sink into his armchair and observe his friend, much as Sherlock often did to John. John never shared his deductions, but kept them to himself with quiet satisfaction. Tonight, Sherlock was in a rare state of relaxation. Whatever problem he was mulling over was simply for enjoyment. There were no cases, no fights about smokes or drugs, no experiments going awry. Earlier, there had been no crap telly and no snide remarks about the people who circled through their lives. Tonight was simply peaceful.

 

John wished he could stay in this moment forever, freezing time. Suddenly realizing that his phone was in his possession—rather than Sherlock’s—he pulled it out and muted it. He moved slowly, not wanting to alert Sherlock to his actions. Once the built-in camera focused, he hit the capture button and Sherlock was now transformed into digital pixels. The fire had flared up for a moment, lighting Sherlock’s face while the rest of his body remained in shadow. It was the perfect representation of his flatmate.

 

Sherlock shifted, crossing one leg over the other and unsteepling his hands as he relaxed. He leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes, long black lashes brushing his cheeks.   Something akin to a soft smile rested on his lips, although John would never say such a thing for fear of Sherlock noticing the instinctual shape it took.

 

These were the perfect moments. These were the times when John knew he was home. These were the times he hoped that Sherlock felt (dare he say) happy.

oOo

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched John watch him. The small man was relaxed in his armchair, soaking up the warmth of the fire with a mug of tea in his hand. He was trying to be sly, observing Sherlock without him noticing. Sherlock was too comfortable to do anything about it, however, and let John carry on. He stared into the fire and mulled over the problem of element 137, or “Feynmanium”. To have an atomic number higher than 137 meant that one of the elections would have to move faster than light, which was impossible. Did that mean that element 137 was the last element that could physically exist? Or would there be a way to break the speed of light in the future, allowing more elements to be discovered?

 

Still mulling over the unsolved problem, Sherlock leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes. Figures, numbers, and theories danced behind his eyelids as he set his full brainpower to the problem. Perhaps, the element already existed and broken the speed of light, but had simply yet to be discovered? Or might it exist on another planet under extreme temperatures and elements?

 

Putting the problem aside for later, Sherlock opened his eyes again and turned to look at John. The man in question had closed his eyes, a small smile on his face. Sherlock enjoyed seeing John like this: completely at ease with all his barriers down. The fire’s glow smoothed the lines on his face rather than accentuating them. A few strands of hair had come loose from his perfectly combed military hairstyle. His cream jumper gave him a soft appearance and for a moment Sherlock had a vivid image of a kitten curled in John’s lap. Then the thought was chased away.

 

Why John had put up with him for so long was a mystery. Sherlock tried for John, he really did, but he always seemed to get it wrong. He was often forced to check with John if something was “not good” in the eyes of _normal_ people. Still, John did not leave the flat, though he often threatened. They had come to many truces over the months, most of which Sherlock promptly deleted from memory and broke. John would have a row about it, while Sherlock made snide remarks, and then John would storm out for a drink. Sherlock would be left to come up with some socially acceptable action or phrase to appease his flatmate when he returned. They usually figure it out and made up, although it was never long before the next incident.

 

John’s soft breaths had deepened and his head rested on one hand. He was starting to slip gently sideways, falling asleep, but kept jerking half awake to right himself. Sherlock _huffed_ and walked over, snagging John’s tea mug before it slipped from his fingers and met the floor. He set it gently on the side table and grabbed a blanket, which he draped over John. The man was fast asleep now and Sherlock predicted he would stay there all night and wake with an awful kink in his neck. Then John would be surly in the morning and his day would go downhill from there, cumulating in a row with Sherlock in the evening about who knew what. Sherlock sighed and returned to his chair. He would simply have to wake John up in an hour and send him to his own bed, thus averting the next day’s disaster.

 

As he closed his eyes and focused back on his element problem, Sherlock realized he felt content and—as John would say—happy.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested by blauherz. Back to normal, after the Fall again.

“Chinese for two, please.” John stood at the counter of one of Sherlock’s favorite restaurants, shifting from foot to foot. It was devilishly cold out, but John had decided to get takeaway on his way back from work. He could usually force Sherlock to eat Chinese, although heaven knows why. What made slightly greasy Chinese better than anything John cooked? He knew that Sherlock was sensitive to taste, but if that was the case than fast food should be his _last_ choice. John rolled his eyes; when would he ever understand Sherlock?

 

“What you want?” The small Chinese man was antsy, probably because of the line forming while John was lost in thought.

 

“Ah, sorry, um, hang on a sec.” He skimmed the food choices. Would he go for his regular, or try something new? Better stick to his regular; he was in a hurry tonight. “I’ll take the menu for one, but instead of the duck spring roll can I have the prawn balls? Um, and just vegetable sticky rice, please.”

 

The Chinese man grabbed boxes and started dishing out the food. When finished he turned back to John. “Second order?”

 

John took a deep breath and launched into Sherlock’s order. It had taken him quite a while to memorize it, but after a tirade over getting the wrong kind of rice, he had stored the order to memory. “The lamb spring roll, pork puff, honeyed chicken rice pot, the chicken shu mai, a coriander dumpling, two har gau, the squid…oh and that mushroom fungus thing.” John made a face. Why did Sherlock have to like such expensive food? And such strange things…trust his flatmate to cultivate exotic tastes in _Chinese food._ Still, if it got Sherlock to eat…it was worth it.

 

The order taken care of, John paid and braved the cold to run the few blocks home. He burst into the flat in a swirl of cold air. “Got takeaway, Sherlock. Stop whatever you are doing and _wash your hands_! I’m not having you get sick again because you forgot you were messing with poison earlier.” Grumbling to himself John dumped the bags on the counter and started unloading the food.

 

Mary wandered in, wrapped in a robe and still damp from her shower. “Oh, food, lovely!”

 

“Ye-es, do you mind sharing mine?” John could have smacked himself; he had forgotten that Mary was going to be over tonight. “I don’t think you will like Sherlock’s food; if he’d share.”

 

“John.” Her tone made him look up. “Look around, John. Think.”

 

John did as he was told, glancing around the flat. Where _was_ Sherlock? He looked at the table he was putting food on: no experiments. Different appliances than 221B gazed back at him. Why…of course. He had forgotten, again. John grunted in annoyance; it was in own fault. He had been on autopilot and slipped into old memories.

 

Mary wrapped her arms around John’s neck. “Don’t worry about it; I’m sure I’ll like some of the same things that Sherlock did.”

 

John laughed and relaxed. “You don’t know his tastes! Did you know, once he…” The couple sat and ate, both ignoring the third plate John had set out for his dead friend.

oOo

Sherlock checked his measurements again and scribbled the result down in one of his numerous notebooks. He carefully measured one mixture into another, adding chemicals from the bottle at his side every few minutes. Sherlock paid no attention to the passage of time until his stomach made a very annoying, very human growl. He rolled his eyes; it must be past dinnertime. “John!” he yelled. “Get us some takeout!” The door to the house slammed and Sherlock went back to his calculations.

 

Two failed experiments and a small explosion later, Sherlock’s stomach was still complaining. He frowned and disregarded it, although it was quickly becoming clear that he could not put off eating for long. How long had it been since his last meal? He mentally gave up after reviewing the day before; must have been longer. Where _was_ John?

 

His mobile buzzed with an incoming call and he flicked it open. “John, did you forget my order _again_? I thought you had it memorized by now!”

 

“Benny, it’s _Idris_.” It was Irene, using the false names they had agreed upon. Irene could get away with visiting London, not many people knew her. “I’m getting takeaway, but I didn’t know what you wanted.”

 

Not John. Of course. He _knew_ John was gone, so why did he keep forgetting? He pushed the thought aside for later. “What Chinese restaurant are you at?”

 

“Wong Kai. I know you only like Chinese from London, so I thought I’d do you a favor.” The sarcasm dripped from her sentence. Probably one of Mycroft’s attempts to make sure he ate; make Irene cater to his odd food choices.

 

“That won’t do.”

 

“Benny…” Her tone warned him that she would only play along so far.

 

“Go to Yauatcha. Broadwick street.”

 

“That’s close to your old flat,” Irene pointed out.

 

“Yes, _Idris_ , I am aware, but you are not me. That’s not where John and I normally went anyway. Tell them you want… the Taste of Yauatcha. It is not worth giving you a list of items that you will most likely forget and then be required to call me back and ask for again.”

 

Irene clicked her tongue. “Fine, just for you. Wish we lived closer to London; takes me bloody forever just to get you food. Oh, sorry—I’m so sorry!” The last words were directed at someone she must have bumped into. “Oh, _hello_ now…”

 

Sherlock huffed angrily; she had seen someone attractive. His stomach reminded him that it wanted food _now_ and he barked into the phone, “IDRIS! No flirting! Food, now!”

 

“Spoil all my fun…I’ll be back in half an hour. How _did_ John stand eating with you?” With that she hung up.

 

Sherlock sat holding his phone and stared into space. “John?” he said experimentally.

 

 _Yes, Sherlock?_ John’s voice seemed to echo back.

 

“Do you want to go get some dinner?”

 

_Chinese? I’m starving, but I’m not bloody walking out in this cold miles to try a new restaurant. No more door handle checking.”_

“But I’ve always been correct.” He sighed in defeat. It _was_ cold out. “Phoenix Palace?”

 

_Brilliant. You know, I think I’ve got your order memorized this time…_

 

Sherlock felt a smile tug at his lips before he wiped it away. Dinner with John was simple. He wondered how much longer it would be till they discussed dinner plans in person. Sherlock frowned and went back to his experiment, but John’s warm voice seemed to linger in the air for a long time after.

 


	40. Chapter 40

John was cold and tired after a long day at work and all he wanted to do was relax in the flat. His flatmate, however, seemed to have other plans. John sensed that something was _off_ as soon as he walked in. It was quiet. Too quiet.   John was not one for clichés, but in this case it was justified. When the flat was silent it meant that one of three things had happened. One: Sherlock had blown something up. Two: Sherlock had broken something of John’s. Three: Sherlock had found where his cigarettes were hidden. None were good options and John dreaded to find out which had occurred. He walked into the flat slowly, searching for the damage.

 

The living room was untouched and no new bullet holes decorated the smiley face on the wall. The skull sat in its normal place on the mantle, undisturbed. The slipper in the fireplace still held its cigarettes. No drugs then and nothing of John’s had been disturbed in the living room. That left the kitchen. He turned with trepidation and walked through to the kitchen.

 

Sherlock’s chemistry set no longer occupied the kitchen table. That could mean something had exploded and Sherlock had removed the set in case John broke it in anger…but there was no smell of smoke in the air. The cabinets were closed and clean, nothing oozing under their doors. The microwave checked out as well. That left… _The Fridge_. John felt his heart sink as he stared at the appliance. What on _earth_ would Sherlock have in there this time? He ran through the list of normal objects to find: head, fingers, eyeballs, a heart once, hands, feet—really, anything that came from a human body. What could be worse than that, so much worse that Sherlock refused to be around when John opened the fridge?

 

“Sherlock? What’s in the fridge?” Silence greeted him. “Sherlock! What. Did. You. Put. In. The. Fridge?!” Again, no answer. Gritting his teeth, John reached out and prepared to open the fridge and face whatever lay inside.

 

“John dear, what a nice surprise!”

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” John whipped around, startled. She held out her arms for a hug and he happily embraced her. “Mrs. Hudson, do you know what Sherlock’s put in the bloody fridge this time? I’m a bit scared to open in and see.”

 

“John…Sherlock’s gone, remember? I’m sorry dear, I know you forget. It’s not right…”

 

“Gone?” John looked around in confusion until it dawned on him. “Gone. Right, um, yes. Dead. But…why did I come here? I thought I went home…” He frowned, trying to sort his spotty memory back into the right places again.

 

“Now, now,” she said as she drew him away from the fridge, “Let’s go have a cuppa and you can spare a few minutes for your old landlady.”

 

John kissed her cheek. “I have all the time in the world for you!” She swatted at him, but John knew she was pleased. Unfortunately, he would probably have some horrid dream about the contents of the 221B fridge that night. He hated that fridge, he really did.

oOo

Sherlock opened the fridge to retrieve his heart sample and stared at the empty space it _should_ have occupied. He closed the fridge, frowned, and opened it again as if the heart would magically appear. He closed the fridge. Had John moved it? Sherlock checked the freezer and microwave with no luck.

 

“JOHN! WHERE’S MY HEART!” There was no answer. Sherlock went back to the fridge. At least he could continue his finger experiments…except the fingers were gone. He felt his heart sink. The tongues in the back of the fridge drawer were missing as well. All his body part samples were gone. Sherlock felt a glare settle onto his face like a permanent storm cloud.

 

“Sherlock? I’m back!” It was Irene.

 

“Irene!” Sherlock stormed out of the cottage kitchen in high dudgeon. “John has thrown away all my specimens! Why, I can’t imagine, he knows…” Sherlock trailed off at Irene’s guilty look.

 

“I’m afraid I threw those away. Also, John doesn’t live here. Why would you be yelling at him?”

 

“WHY?! They were for my experiments!” Sherlock ignored her last sentences, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he still talked to John, despite his friend being miles away.  


“They were body parts, Sherlock! You had them in the fridge!”

 

“John never minded when I kept them there in our old flat!” Technically, John had minded, but he had never thrown anything out. Well, nothing Sherlock could not replace.

 

“Then John had no sense of hygiene,” Irene snapped back angrily. “While we are staying together you are NOT keeping body parts in the fridge! I understand if it is important, but you will just have to wait until you have a laboratory to do your experiments in. Why don’t you talk to Mycroft about it?”

 

“You are as bad as Molly,” Sherlock hissed. “The whole point of moving out here was so that I could continue hunting down Moriarty’s men. My experiments are vital for that task!”

 

“No body parts, Sherlock, end of!” Irene huffed and stormed back to the car, pulling out of the driveway in a cloud of dust.

 

Sherlock reined in the urge to stop his foot like a child and pulled out his phone. He hit speed dial.

 

“Brother dear, whatever it is, can’t it wait?” Mycroft’s cool tones merely added to the detective’s anger.

 

“It’s certainly more important than what you are doing now—which is probably taking tea—or you wouldn’t have called me “brother”. We have a problem.”

 

Mycroft sighed in exasperation and the clink of a teacup echoed across the line. “What’s happened now, Sherlock?”

 

“It’s a disaster! This _cottage_ is too small! I need my own laboratory and room. Irene threw out the samples I was keeping in the fridge.”

 

“The human body parts in the fridge…ah, what your mind associates with a disaster is _really_ quite fascinating.” There was silence for a moment. “Would you rather be closer or farther from London?”

 

“Closer would be ideal, although private grounds would be necessary. I’d also like to be able to come and go as needed without attracting unwanted attention.”

 

“Would a helicopter suffice for most of your travels?”

 

Sherlock snorted. “I did say unwanted attention, _Mycroft_.”

 

“Dear brother, sarcasm ill suits you. I have the perfect place in mind. Dancers Lane Barnet, Hertfordshire”

 

“You can afford that.” It was a statement, not a question.

 

“Technically, you could too, except that I control the money. Consider it…part of your inheritance.” Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s snort at the statement. “I’ll work on buying it immediately and having them remodel one of the rooms into a laboratory. _Complete_ with a fridge for your specimens. Satisfactory?”

 

“Completely. And Mycroft? Employ some woman. Irene will get _bored_.”

 Mycroft chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you two alone.”

 


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N- Inspired by blauherz**

 

Sherlock glanced around the cottage now full of boxes and sighed. Mycroft’s men would soon be here to move the belongings to the new mansion, but until then Sherlock was bored. He glanced over the flat surfaces near him and his eyes settled on the small computer beside the sofa. Grabbing it, he threw himself down on the sofa and flipped up the lid. _Locked_ , it proclaimed. Ah, well, that had not stopped him before. John was amazingly stupid at coming up with new passwords.

 

 _I <3mary4ever_. Sherlock hit _enter_ , but got the “wrong password, 3 more tries” message. He thought a moment and tried again. _FifthNorthumberlandFusiliers._ John had used quite a few variations of that in the past. Again, it was not correct. Two more tries. Sherlock paused to think. Something with Harry? No, John had finally worn those out. It would not be his old girlfriends….ah, of course. _sherlockihateyou._ Again, no! Only one try left. He frowned. John was getting smarter. It could be variations of what he had typed, but John had already been through most of them. What could it be? John would not have the patience to memorize a string of numbers or a long password, he wanted to be able to get into the computer quickly when needed.

 

Sherlock was no longer in possession of his computer hacking equipment so he was left with his mind. It had never failed him yet, but he was starting to come up blank. The names of John’s parents were doubtful…John had never spoken of them before, so no emotional attachment. Maybe it was something simpler, something John was fond of…jam, tea? No, too random. It would have to be something sentimental…someone John cared about…his passwords usually concerned people. Who did John care about enough to make his password?

 

Bill Murray. The nurse that had saved John’s life. Perfect! Sherlock typed the name in and hit _enter_ with a contented air. It had taken him a bit longer than he had liked, but he had still guessed the password. Then the computer flashed a red warning; he was locked out for 10 minutes. “What?! Bloody … John! What’s your password?” He glared at the offending computer. He had been so _sure_ he was right!

 

Irene sailed in, laden down with clothes and hangers. “Sherlock, are you trying to hack my computer?”

 

Sherlock looked from the computer to Irene and back. He slammed the lid shut. “No, not at all. Would you like some help?”

 

Irene stopped, turned, and peered around the pile of clothes. “ _Help_? Sherlock, are you sick?”

 

Sherlock thought about what he had just said and decided that he _really_ needed some fresh air. Now. Irene laughed as he stalked out of the house.

oOo

John stared at his setting screen, trying to come up with a new password combination he had not yet used. Sherlock bloody hacked his computer on a regular basis, prompting John to change his password _constantly_. There were only so many variations of his current girlfriend’s name, something connected to the army, or a stab at Sherlock he could come up with. John hated thinking of new passwords. He wanted something simple as he was often using the computer in a hurry. Strings of numbers were too complicated, single words too simple. What could he do?

 

He stared into space, thinking. He had gone through just about every variation of capital letters and exclamation points he thought he could remember. It was time to pick something completely new for a password, something he had never tried before. What would stump the great Sherlock Holmes? A name…names were good. Simpler to remember. Someone who was important to him; not Harry, he had used her before. Not Stamford, he was simply a friend. Not Lestrade, although they were on much closer terms than before.

 

Bill! Perfect—John wondered why he had not considered the name earlier. His friend _had_ saved his life in Afghanistan. John started to type the password in and stopped. If he had come to the conclusion, so would Sherlock. John did not have a long list of the people he really cared about. The only person left on that list was—Sherlock.

 

John could have smacked himself; it was too good of an idea. He quickly typed Sherlock’s name in as the new password and hit _save_. Sherlock would never suspect that his name would be the password because John _cared_ about him. If anything, he would think there was an insulting sentence attached as the rest of the password.

 

John put the computer aside and settled happily into his chair. It was not until that evening when he lay next to a sleeping Mary that he realized that Sherlock would never hack into his computer again. Nevertheless, the password did not change.


	42. Chapter 42

At the unexpected crash of thunder, John screamed. It was the sound a grown man was not supposed to make. John was instantly thrown back into the horrors of Afghanistan; the bombs exploding around him and bullets raining hell from above. He was running…he was running and soldiers were falling. His friends were dying and there was nothing he could do. He knew in the back of his mind that he would see many of them again on his operating table. He also knew that most would die under his hand and the only thing he would be able to do was ease their passing. The knowledge seemed to drag him down as he ran.

 

The ground in front of him exploded and he fell from the shock wave. His ears rang as he struggled to move, to run, to hide. In the heat of war, this is what a man was reduced to: base animal instincts. There was no strategy here except to hide and survive. John pulled himself back up and kept running. A man fell beside him, calling for help. John did not stop. He hated himself, screamed inside to turn around and be a hero. He could not. His legs kept pumping, carrying him away from the now legless man. The broken ground was stained red from blood. Still John ran.

 

The safety of the shield wall was in sight when the bullet entered his shoulder. White-hot pain ripped through his frame and then disappeared, leaving him surprisingly clear headed. Shock, he realized. He had to keep moving. He stumbled and fell. It was Bill Murray that saved his life. He did what John could not. He stopped, went back, and helped up his smaller friend. Stumbling, they crossed to the safety of their side. Bill was calling for another doctor and John found himself as the patient, another man working to save his life. He closed his eyes and finally blacked out.

 

Another crash caused John to cringe. He hated this. He never used to be scared of thunder; he used to enjoy the rage of nature. The PTSD, however, ensured that he now lived in fear of storms. As the noise continued to crash around him, John sat on the floor, knees pulled up and hands over his ears, reduced to a small frightened child. Sherlock had found him like this once and had, in his own odd way, tried to help. He had thrust a cup of tea in John’s hands and pulled out his violin, incorporating the crashes of thunder into his song. It was a feat only Sherlock would have been able to pull off and John had soon let the war images fade, entranced by Sherlock’s music.

 

Now, there was no Sherlock or violin music to distract John. He simply sat on the floor and shuddered at every boom, a broken man without escape.

oOo

Sherlock looked out the window at the crash of thunder. His mind immediately jumped to John. His flatmate would be alone, probably in the thrall of war memories. Who was there now to distract him till the storm ended? Sherlock sighed, wondering when he had become so sentimental. _Caring is not an advantage._ From the first moment that Sherlock and John had met, though, Sherlock had started to…care. He had tried for John. In return, John had stuck by his side through thick and thin.

 

Now…now Sherlock was miles away from John. He refused to check the camera feed of John’s flat; he did not want to see the picture he knew would greet him. Unable to sit still, Sherlock started pacing the flat. Finally, he pulled out his violin and started composing as he played, channeling his suppressed emotions into the music. Unconsciously, the longer Sherlock played, the closer the music matched the thunder and rain until the two become one. Sherlock played for John, even if John would never hear.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- Just a pointless little something for Valentine’s day :)

"Here." Irene handed Sherlock two presents wrapped in eye-shattering shades of pink.

  
"What are these supposed to be?" He frowned at the packages, wondering if he could avert his eyes from the obnoxious colors.

  
"It's Valentine's Day, Sherlock. Even if you don't care, I thought I'd get you something."

  
"You shouldn't have," Sherlock said and he meant it. Dejectedly, he realized that social rules said he would have to open the presents and pretend to like them. He started with the smaller package first. Beneath the layers of tissue paper and ribbon he found a box with what appeared to be handcuffs. For a moment Sherlock wondered if these were the "fluffy handcuffs" Irene had been threatening him with but, upon closer examination, he found they were real police grade handcuffs. He perked up; they would be useful in his hunt for criminals.

  
The next package revealed a beautiful new scarf. It was dark navy blue, soothingly soft to his skin and stylish. He gently pulled it out and tied it around his neck, looking in the nearby mirror to admire how it sat on his neck.

  
"That," Irene motioned to the scarf, "isn't actually from me. The handcuffs were though."

  
"Who is it from?"

  
"Mycroft—"

  
"Mycroft?!" Sherlock interrupted.

  
Irene gave him a look and finished her sentence. "—brought it over. It was something John had left for you at your grave. Mycroft gave it to me to pass on to you and I decided today was as good a day as any."

  
Sherlock looked at the scarf with renewed interest, appreciating the thought John must have put into picking the scarf for his dead friend.

  
"Thank you, Irene. I'm afraid this is all I can give you in thanks." He leaned forward and, as he had once done to Molly Hooper, lightly kissed Irene's cheek. She blushed slightly and swatted him away, but Sherlock felt a smile tugging at his lips before he stifled it. Sexual orientation aside, Irene was quite pleased.

  
Sherlock turned back to the mirror and his new scarf. He would have to thank John when he saw him someday. At the thought his heart contracted slightly. The longer the two friends stayed apart, the more Sherlock found he missed John. He pushed the sentimental thought away and focused back on the mirror.

 

Smiling to herself, Irene quietly left Sherlock still preening before the mirror.  
OoO

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Mary bent over and kissed John’s head, handing him a small wrapped package.

 

“Mary, you shouldn’t have!” John smiled back at her, not meaning his words. He had his own present for her set aside. Focusing on what she had given him, he unwrapped the small plain box. Upon lifting the lid he found a beautiful silver pocket watch with a matching chain. “Mary…it’s beautiful!”

 

Excited, she motioned at him. “Open it!”

 

John popped the little watch open and sucked in his breath. Inside was an inscription: _Sherlock Holmes, June 15, 2012._ John felt his eyes sting with suppressed tears and he gave Mary a long kiss. “Thank you. Just…thank you.” She grinned at him, obviously pleased by his reaction.

 

“Now, I have a present for you.” John got up and went to his room, bringing back a small jewelry gift box. Mary’s eyes lit up as she took and opened it. Inside laid a silver necklace with a small heart attached. Three tiny diamonds winked out of it. She squealed in excitement and John carefully fastened the necklace around her neck. The two kissed again and John pulled his girlfriend down onto his lap.

 

As the two wrestled playfully John realized he was truly happy. Perhaps the pain of Sherlock’s death would never disappear, but it was lessening.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a post from bbcsherlockheadcanon tumblr.

John lifted his hand to his neck, fingers instinctively searching for his dog tags. The digits met only bare skin and he was once again reminded that he no longer possessed them. Sighing, John brushed the unconscious gesture away and continued with his day.

 

John did not always wear his dog tags. Sometimes the memories attached to the little pieces of metal weighed him down and he would pull them off in frustration. They would then live in a drawer next to his bed for a few days until he felt ready to shoulder the memories again.

 

Two days before Sherlock died had been one of those days. John had been worried about Sherlock and had not felt like dealing with the war memories as well. He had taken the necklace off, dropped it in his bedroom drawer, and promptly forgotten about it. In the wake of Sherlock's death the dog tags were the last thing on John's mind. When John was packing to move out of 221B he had found them missing. Surprised, he had searched the entire bedroom as well as the rest of the flat. He knew he had left them in his drawer, but now they were nowhere to be seen.  He never found them and finally gave up, not wanting to linger in the empty flat.

 

Over time, John got used to the missing metal tags and started to let go of the war memories. They still haunted his sleep, although now it was usually Moriarty or Sherlock who stalked his dreams. Still, when distracted or frustrated--or simply out of habit--John would reach for the missing necklace and sigh.

oOo

Sherlock paced the room, lost deep in thought. He was worrying at the problem of James Lake, one of Moriarty's men. The man had gone to ground in Ireland and Sherlock was now trying to decide on the best avenue to ferret him out. As Sherlock paced, his hand unconsciously lifted to his neck and he pulled out the metal tags that were now warm from his skin. They were John's dog tags, of course.

 

The day before Sherlock met Moriarty on the roof of St. Bart's, Sherlock had a pretty good idea what possible outcomes could occur. He planned, of course, to survive, but there was always the option that his plan would backfire. Sherlock could not allow himself to consider other options, however. He had to turn all his analytical brainpower to surviving the upcoming encounter.

 

Sherlock did not allow himself to deal with silly emotions and  _feelings_  but he knew that if his plan worked, he would not see John again for a long time, if ever. With this thought in mind, while flying through the flat, Sherlock slipped into John's room and impulsively grabbed the tags. He later passed them on to Molly to hold for him. She was surprised—what need would Sherlock have for _these_?—but she knew better to question him.

 

When Sherlock moved in with Molly he took the tags back without comment. His soon formed a habit of wearing them when he was not out hunting criminals. When Sherlock did not want to risk wearing the necklace out he left it hidden in his room. Now, Irene bugged him about why he had dog tags, but he never answered. After a while she had learned to drop the matter, probably guessing whose they were.

 

Sherlock kept pacing the room, fidgeting with the necklace. The warm smooth metal helped focus his thoughts; he could concentrate on it rather than the worrying smell coming from the kitchen. Irene was baking a new recipe, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. Frowning, Sherlock kept considering options for James Lake, worrying at the necklace all the while.

 


	45. Chapter 45

**A/N- This will be a 2 part chapter.**

 

As Christmas time approached, Mary wanted to know what John and Sherlock used to do for Christmas. John had explained about the Irene incident and how it had ruined their holiday cheer. “Mrs. Hudson was so disgusted,” he confided. “We were her little family.”

 

“Did Sherlock never go to his family’s that Christmas?” She asked.

 

John coughed on his tea, almost choking as he tried to swallow and laugh. “Christmas? With Sherlock’s _family?_ Gosh no. Mycroft once told me, ‘You can imagine the Christmas dinners,’ and I certainly don’t want to.”

 

Mary sniffed. “It was his family, John. I’m sure they all got along, whatever his brother might have said.”

 

“Mary, darling, I don’t know if Sherlock Holmes was even _capable_ of enjoying turkey, much less a family Christmas.”

 

In reality, both were partially right, although neither knew it.

oOo

“Good evening, little brother.”

 

“Mycroft. Enjoying the Christmas cake, are we?”

 

“Ever the cynic, Sherlock.” Mycroft frowned; he _had_ been enjoying the holiday sweets. “What are you and Irene doing for Christmas?”

 

“You know I don’t do anything for Christmas. The last ones I attended were…disastrous, to say the least. You remember. Without Mrs. Hudson and John forcing me to participate I can happily forget the holiday exists.”

 

Irene walked in, overhearing the last of the sentence. “Nice try, Sherlock. Last Christmas I thought I was going to die and I believe it rather spoiled your holiday. This year lets have Mycroft over and have a nice little Christmas dinner. We have this lovely large mansion; we might as well enjoy it.”

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the idea but did not contradict her. Sherlock glared at the both of them. “John’s not here,” he hissed.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, “But I’m sure I could send him a…present that you picked out for him. Would that suffice instead?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “Me? Pick out a present? Why on earth would I do that?”

 

His brother gave him a bland smile. “Sentiment, Sherlock. Run along now.”

 

Irene laughed as Sherlock angrily stalked out of the room, annoyed at Mycroft’s deduction. “What happened the last time Sherlock had a family Christmas?”

 

Mycroft groaned. “It was…well, saying it was disaster would be putting it lightly.” Irene simply waited; there was no way she was passing up a story this blackmail worthy. Mycroft weighed Sherlock’s future anger upon learning that Irene had heard the story and then shrugged, launching into the tale. His brother deserved it.

oOo

_9 year before Sherlock and John met_

_Sherlock is 20, Mycroft 27_

“Sherlock!” Mycroft stormed up the staircase of the Holmes’s ancestral home, more than a bit exasperated. He had left his younger brother in his room with orders to dress appropriately for dinner in a _timely_ manner. Half an hour had passed and Sherlock failed to appear. It was Christmas Eve and their parents were holding a small holiday dinner, inviting some very important guests. Mycroft, who was still new to his career in the British government, was hoping to impress. That is, if he could manage to take any time away from babysitting his little brother.

 

It really was not Sherlock’s fault he had turned out the way he did. Their father had cared little for the “problem child”, instead grooming his older son in the way of politics and intrigue from a young age. Their mother had a bit more patience and hired the best therapists and nannies to take care of Sherlock. Unfortunately, he was a high maintenance, misunderstood child with a crafty mind and an inclination of speaking his mind. The “help” always fled and their mother would be back to square one. After a while, even her patience ran dry and she gave up on her abnormal son. Some of the lessons the therapists had taught Sherlock had stuck and he had learned to function well enough not to completely embarrass himself at social events. That was all his parents had cared about. So, it had fallen to Mycroft to raise his little brother from a young age.

 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft banged on the door, finally opening it when he got no answer. He almost walked it before sensing the tension in the room. Something…was not right. Knowing Sherlock’s alarming love of scientific experiments at the expense of another, Mycroft had learned to be wary. He stood to the side of the door and pushed it the entire way open, well out of the way. He was right in his assumption. Something came whistling through the space where he had previously been standing and buried itself in the opposite hallway wall. Upon inspection, Mycroft found a small dart with some kind of liquid inside the clear barrel.

 

“Sherlock Holmes!” The young man in question was laying on his back on his bed, his change of clothes nowhere in sight. Once Mycroft deemed it safe to enter he stalked over to his brother’s bed. Sherlock did not even turn his head to look. The older brother took a deep breath though his mouth and blew it out his nose. Making a visible effort, he tried to turn the conversation to something Sherlock would at least answer. “What was in the dart?”

 

“New sleep medication I mixed up.” Sherlock refused to make eye contact, but at least he was talking.

 

“Clever, how you rigged it to the door.” Mycroft’s sharp eyes had picked out the motion camera that was attached to the canopy of Sherlock’s bed. It was aimed so that once the door opened a certain amount; it would trigger the sensor, presumably sending a signal to launch the dart. Why Sherlock insisted on mixing up chemical compounds, however, Mycroft still did not understand. Sherlock had never been able to decide on a profession to follow, and university was not giving him motivation. He did well in his classes—he loved to learn—but regrettably he considered a large amount of the knowledge useless and promptly forgot it. He was close to flunking his English and history classes, but excelled in the sciences and maths.

 

Sherlock sighed in answer to Mycroft’s earlier comment. “Clever, but boring.”

 

Mycroft sat down gingerly on the bed. He gazed at his little brother both love and frustration. This was a very different time for the Holmes brothers than when John first met them. Sherlock was still a moody teenager and Mycroft was still the exasperated older brother. He was still helping take care of Sherlock, even as his government job put more demands on his time.

 

Unbeknownst to him, a few short months after Christmas he would handle a highly sensitive situation that would get him noticed by his superiors. He would be vaulted up to the high track with greater responsibility and no free time. Mycroft would no longer be able to care for his younger brother. Sherlock would see this as a betrayal and close off his few emotions, turning brotherly love to hate. When Mycroft next saw Sherlock again, almost a year later, the two would be very different men. There would be no more Christmases together. Sherlock’s erratic behavior would threaten Mycroft’s new position, making him harsher on his little brother than he normally would be. Sherlock, now in full rebellion and smarting from his brother’s perceived betrayal, would merely fight back. The situation would come to head many more times, cumulating in the suicide attempts by Sherlock and the hard hearts of both sides.

 

But this was Christmas Eve, and none of these things had yet come to pass. Sherlock was still a confused young boy, unsure of how to interact with other adults. Mycroft was still caring and affectionate, understanding of Sherlock’s odd quirks.

 

Sherlock finally turned his head to look at his older brother. “I don’t want to go down for dinner. I don’t like the people coming.”

 

Mycroft sighed. “It will make Mummy and Father happy. Anyway, you can just stick with me tonight.”

 

Sherlock turned his face away again. “You’ll be talking to all the government people, trying to get noticed and appreciated for your job.”

 

Mycroft gave a guilty start; he _had_ been hoping to ditch Sherlock’s babysitting on someone else that night. Still, Mycroft would see these men again. Perhaps he could entertain Sherlock with…something, or someone so he could get in a few words. He focused back on Sherlock. “Come on, get dressed and let’s go down.”

 

“I don’t want to eat turkey; I don’t like food the chefs prepare.”

 

“You like the rolls, right? There will be spiced wine, too.” Sherlock looked back at Mycroft who, encouraged, continued. “Maybe we can get the chefs to prepare something small on the side for you. What do you want?”

 

“Chinese. Takeaway.” Mycroft gave Sherlock a look. University had giving Sherlock an unhealthy love of the cheap cuisine. How his sensitive palate could handle it, the older brother had no idea. “Fine…fish and chips.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tried, “It _is_ Christmas…”

 

“Just fish. But the way you make it.” With that plea, Mycroft’s little brother turned large soulful puppy eyes on him.

 

He took a deep breath, considered the request, and decided it was not worth the fight to make Sherlock pick another food. “All right. Just this once. The guests have started to arrive by the sound of it, so I’ll go see if I can whip it up.” Sherlock’s face broke into an uncharacteristic smile and Mycroft felt his own lips turn up. “BUT—” he held up a finger. “You have to be dressed and presentable downstairs by the time I’m done. And please, just…don’t talk to the guests unless you have to say hello. You can wait by the fire and I’ll join you when I’m done making your food, alright?”

 

Sherlock grinned and bounded off the bed, as tightly wound as a spring. Mycroft left him to ransack his wardrobe and went to cook. It was going to be a long evening. That smile though…it had been worth it.


	46. Chapter 46

**A/N- Part 2; see previous chapter for part 1**

 

_9 year before Sherlock and John met_

_Sherlock is 20, Mycroft 27_

“Sherlock!” Mycroft stormed up the staircase of the Holmes’s ancestral home, more than a bit exasperated. He had left his younger brother in his room with orders to dress appropriately for dinner in a _timely_ manner. Half an hour had passed and Sherlock failed to appear. It was Christmas Eve and their parents were holding a small holiday dinner, inviting some very important guests. Mycroft, who was still new to his career in the British government, was hoping to impress. That is, if he could manage to take any time away from babysitting his little brother.

 

It really was not Sherlock’s fault he had turned out the way he did. Their father had cared little for the “problem child”, instead grooming his older son in the way of politics and intrigue from a young age. Their mother had a bit more patience and hired the best therapists and nannies to take care of Sherlock. Unfortunately, he was a high maintenance, misunderstood child with a crafty mind and an inclination of speaking his mind. The “help” always fled and their mother would be back to square one. After a while, even her patience ran dry and she gave up on her abnormal son. Some of the lessons the therapists had taught Sherlock had stuck and he had learned to function well enough not to completely embarrass himself at social events. That was all his parents had cared about. So, it had fallen to Mycroft to raise his little brother from a young age.

 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft banged on the door, finally opening it when he got no answer. He almost walked it before sensing the tension in the room. Something…was not right. Knowing Sherlock’s alarming love of scientific experiments at the expense of another, Mycroft had learned to be wary. He stood to the side of the door and pushed it the entire way open, well out of the way. He was right in his assumption. Something came whistling through the space where he had previously been standing and buried itself in the opposite hallway wall. Upon inspection, Mycroft found a small dart with some kind of liquid inside the clear barrel.

 

“Sherlock Holmes!” The young man in question was laying on his back on his bed, his change of clothes nowhere in sight. Once Mycroft deemed it safe to enter he stalked over to his brother’s bed. Sherlock did not even turn his head to look. The older brother took a deep breath though his mouth and blew it out his nose. Making a visible effort, he tried to turn the conversation to something Sherlock would at least answer. “What was in the dart?”

 

“New sleep medication I mixed up.” Sherlock refused to make eye contact, but at least he was talking.

 

“Clever, how you rigged it to the door.” Mycroft’s sharp eyes had picked out the motion camera that was attached to the canopy of Sherlock’s bed. It was aimed so that once the door opened a certain amount; it would trigger the sensor, presumably sending a signal to launch the dart. Why Sherlock insisted on mixing up chemical compounds, however, Mycroft still did not understand. Sherlock had never been able to decide on a profession to follow, and university was not giving him motivation. He did well in his classes—he loved to learn—but regrettably he considered a large amount of the knowledge useless and promptly forgot it. He was close to flunking his English and history classes, but excelled in the sciences and maths.

 

Sherlock sighed in answer to Mycroft’s earlier comment. “Clever, but boring.”

 

Mycroft sat down gingerly on the bed. He gazed at his little brother both love and frustration. This was a very different time for the Holmes brothers than when John first met them. Sherlock was still a moody teenager and Mycroft was still the exasperated older brother. He was still helping take care of Sherlock, even as his government job put more demands on his time.

 

Unbeknownst to him, a few short months after Christmas he would handle a highly sensitive situation that would get him noticed by his superiors. He would be vaulted up to the high track with greater responsibility and no free time. Mycroft would no longer be able to care for his younger brother. Sherlock would see this as a betrayal and close off his few emotions, turning brotherly love to hate. When Mycroft next saw Sherlock again, almost a year later, the two would be very different men. There would be no more Christmases together. Sherlock’s erratic behavior would threaten Mycroft’s new position, making him harsher on his little brother than he normally would be. Sherlock, now in full rebellion and smarting from his brother’s perceived betrayal, would merely fight back. The situation would come to head many more times, cumulating in the suicide attempts by Sherlock and the hard hearts of both sides.

 

But this was Christmas Eve, and none of these things had yet come to pass. Sherlock was still a confused young boy, unsure of how to interact with other adults. Mycroft was still caring and affectionate, understanding of Sherlock’s odd quirks.

 

Sherlock finally turned his head to look at his older brother. “I don’t want to go down for dinner. I don’t like the people coming.”

 

Mycroft sighed. “It will make Mummy and Father happy. Anyway, you can just stick with me tonight.”

 

Sherlock turned his face away again. “You’ll be talking to all the government people, trying to get noticed and appreciated for your job.”

 

Mycroft gave a guilty start; he _had_ been hoping to ditch Sherlock’s babysitting on someone else that night. Still, Mycroft would see these men again. Perhaps he could entertain Sherlock with…something, or someone so he could get in a few words. He focused back on Sherlock. “Come on, get dressed and let’s go down.”

 

“I don’t want to eat turkey; I don’t like food the chefs prepare.”

 

“You like the rolls, right? There will be spiced wine, too.” Sherlock looked back at Mycroft who, encouraged, continued. “Maybe we can get the chefs to prepare something small on the side for you. What do you want?”

 

“Chinese. Takeaway.” Mycroft gave Sherlock a look. University had giving Sherlock an unhealthy love of the cheap cuisine. How his sensitive palate could handle it, the older brother had no idea. “Fine…fish and chips.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tried, “It _is_ Christmas…”

 

“Just fish. But the way you make it.” With that plea, Mycroft’s little brother turned large soulful puppy eyes on him.

 

He took a deep breath, considered the request, and decided it was not worth the fight to make Sherlock pick another food. “All right. Just this once. The guests have started to arrive by the sound of it, so I’ll go see if I can whip it up.” Sherlock’s face broke into an uncharacteristic smile and Mycroft felt his own lips turn up. “BUT—” he held up a finger. “You have to be dressed and presentable downstairs by the time I’m done. And please, just…don’t talk to the guests unless you have to say hello. You can wait by the fire and I’ll join you when I’m done making your food, alright?”

 

Sherlock grinned and bounded off the bed, as tightly wound as a spring. Mycroft left him to ransack his wardrobe and went to cook. It was going to be a long evening. That smile though…it had been worth it.

oOo

 

When Mycroft finished with the food and rejoined the guests, he found Sherlock dressed and standing dutifully by the fire. Mycroft bumped shoulders with his little brother and turned to observe the guests. He easily picked out his work superiors, along with some other men he did not know. There were a few sons and daughters: none his age, but one boy that looked close to Sherlock’s age. Mycroft raked his eyes over the other boy and decided that he looked smart enough to stand up to Sherlock for at least a few minutes.

 

“Sherlock? You see that boy over there?”

 

Sherlock turned and made a face. “Average intelligence. What about him?”

 

“Can I please introduce the two of you? You don’t have to like him, just be civil. It’s good practice.”

 

“Why do I have to practice? I have nothing to do with him now, nor will I in the future.”

 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed in exasperation. “I’m trying to help. You know it makes Mummy happy when you at least make an attempt to be social.”

 

Sherlock pondered their mother’s potential happiness against a fight with Mycroft. His face fell and Mycroft knew he had scored a point. “Fine. But go do your government smoozing now. I don’t want to have to live through it later.”

 

Mycroft nodded and watched Sherlock slouch off. He quickly turned and joined the group of politicians and officials. The group played a deadly dance of words and gestures, not softened by the Christmas season. Soon Mycroft was lost in a deep discussion about security measures, his little brother the last thing on his mind.

 

Sherlock, meanwhile, did attempt a conversation. It was not his fault the other boy was an imbecile and took offense to the simple truth. After the teenager had stormed off to his father, Sherlock looked for Mycroft. His older brother was deep in conversation. Sherlock tried to wait, but patience was never his strong point. His analytical mind raced through theories, experiments, hypotheses—anything to keep himself distracted.

 

Sherlock retreated to a corner of the foyer, eyes darting everywhere. The sounds of laughter, voices, clinking glasses, and footsteps were becoming overwhelming. The smells from the kitchen along with the colors and movements in the room were starting to make him feel sick. Sherlock’s eyes frantically searched for his older brother, but he was lost from sight. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to block out all other stimuli as he took deep breaths. He needed to go to his mind palace…he needed to…he needed…. It was not working. He was not able to concentrate and the outside stimuli came crashing back in worse than before. He had to get out of here—he had to escape. Uncontrollable panic was taking over his body. The more Sherlock lost control, the more he needed to escape. He fled the foyer and made it as far as the back hall before he lost it.

 

It was there that Mycroft found Sherlock, rocking with his hands over his ears, mumbling unintelligibly. Guilt stabbed through his chest; he _knew_ that Sherlock was bad in large group of people. He helped his little brother up and forced Sherlock to focus on his face. “It’s okay…Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. Now, recite the periodic table.”

 

“Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Fluorine…” Sherlock’s eyes started to focus and his recitation sped up as the simple task grounded him to reality again. “…Fermium, Mendelevium, Nobelium, Lawrencium—”

 

“Ok, that’s enough. You obviously are all right.” Sherlock gave a half smirk, completely himself again. “Dinner is ready, will you join us?” Sherlock’s smile fell, but he nodded and fell in step behind his brother.

 

Dinner was arduous and long, but neither Mummy nor Father commented on Sherlock’s plate of fish, which was at odds with the expensive turkey prepared. Whenever Sherlock started to clench his fist and look tense, Mycroft distracted him with questions about the dinner guests. Sherlock had a head for facts and details, more so than his older brother at times. He was able to make hypotheses about the dinner guests; their home lives, what they thought of the other guests, whether they were enjoying the dinner or not.

 

After dinner the guests gathered in the parlor to admire the Holmes family Christmas tree and to sip their drinks. Sherlock disappeared and Mycroft figured he had fled for the safety of his room. The older Holmes circulated through the other guests, playing the good host and making connections. Holmes Senior made eye contact with his son and gave a slight nod of approval. The night was going very well, considering. That was, until Sherlock returned.

 

The first indication that something was amiss was when the small fire roared up in a fireball, turning a multitude of colors. A few guests, standing too close, yelped and jumped back. A cloud of oily smoke seeped through the room, making people cough. Mycroft had immediately pulled out a handkerchief and now held it to his nose, as to not breath in the smoke. The other guests, sadly, were not as quick. Windows were quickly opened and the smoke rushed out into the cold air. Apologies were made for the old fireplace and ruffled feathers were smoothed.

 

Then, the lights went out. The fire’s sullen red glow and a few candles were all that lit the room. This was the moment that Mycroft started to suspect that Sherlock was behind the occurrences. An ungodly shrieking noise filled the room; Mycroft recognized the distorted sound of a coyote, elongated and warped. Frightened cries filled the room. The sounds were then replaced by the screams of a small child. The windows rattled as dogs with giant slavering teeth threw themselves out of the dark. The room seemed to twist and spin before Mycroft’s eyes and he dully realized Sherlock must have put one of his drug concoctions into the fire. Holmes Senior stumbled past, flickering candlelight showing patches of rotten skin. Mycroft stumbled for the door, only for it to disappear as his fingers reached for the handle. Chaos reined throughout the room as people fought demons only they could see. The young British official leaned against a wall and closed his eyes, refusing to trust his senses. Ghoulish sounds still echoed around the room, adding to the terror of the guests.

 

Abruptly, the sounds cut off mid scream and the lights flicked back on. Mycroft opened his eyes to find that the room finally stood still. Guests were starting to collect themselves as the drug wore off. Whatever Sherlock had used, it was short acting; Mycroft guessed that only a minute or two had passed. As the room was slowly restored, Holmes Senior shot an evil look at Mycroft. He correctly interpreted it; Sherlock was the cause and Sherlock would pay. No mater how angry Mycroft was, though, he knew better than to leave Sherlock to the mercy of their father. He would have to slip away, collect his little brother, and stay out of the mansion for the night. Mycroft looked around and revised the idea; Sherlock could stay with him at his flat in the city for the next few days.

 

For now, though, Sherlock was probably reveling at his accomplishment. Underneath the anger and annoyance, Mycroft had to hand it to him; it _had_ been worth it to see the higher ups acting like a bunch of frightened children. Granted—he had been acting the same. He quickly pushed the thought away; it would be prudent to forget his involvement in this incident.

 

Mummy glided to the center of the room, capturing the inhabitant’s attention. She gave a tight smile and said the only thing a proper British citizen could: “Let’s have tea, shall we?”


	47. Chapter 47

**A/N- Inspired by azebra117**

Sherlock sat in the garden, eyes focused on the pond, but his mind a thousand miles away. His thoughts had taken a turn for the unexpected, thinking of John. It struck him how different their minds really were. Of course, Sherlock knew his mind was superior to anyone’s, save perhaps Mycroft. What he had not thought of, though, was that he would be jealous of John’s placid mind. Despite the vast amount of detail John missed, his incompetence, his inability to keep track of crimes or motives…Sherlock still found himself jealous.

 

It was an emotion that he had rarely felt and he pursued it, trying to find the cause. Why would he want an ordinary small mind, ignoring all the potential it could be used for? What did John have that Sherlock did not? For one, John had social skills. Sherlock never felt like bothering with pleasantries and social rules; they were tedious and dull. John, on the other hand, never seemed to mind indulging in the rules society dictated. He enjoyed small talk and was friendly to everyone he met. He was comfortable in new social situations whereas Sherlock would be more likely to flee or insult someone.

 

Second: John’s emotions. Sherlock saw emotions as a chemical defect to be avoided at all costs. He would copy the emotions if needed for a case, but he did not partake in them any other time. John however, could go from happy to angry to sad in the space of a few minutes. He would fall in and out of love with his girlfriends, although he never complained to Sherlock. He felt empathy for the victims of the crimes they examined while Sherlock felt only curiosity or interest. John _cared_ so much and yet it did not tear him apart. Sherlock did sometimes experience real emotions without his consent; there was only so far he could control his body. Still, he did his best to repress the chemical signals as much as possible. Although he never wanted to experience the full range of emotions John put up with, he was jealous of John’s ease of navigating them.

 

Third: John’s love. John loved Harry, he loved Mrs. Hudson, he loved Molly Hooper, he loved his girlfriends. He gave his love freely, expecting nothing in return. To Sherlock, love was a tool to motivate killers, to cloud the senses, or to drive one mad. When he was younger he had loved his parents until he learned that they did not love him in the same way. His father barely tolerated the odd son. His mother tried, but she often grew angry with his lack of progress in development at a young age. Sherlock had loved Mycroft, but after Mycroft’s betrayal, he had locked those feelings away. John…John was different. John loved and thought nothing of it.

 

Lastly: John’s simple mind. Sherlock never thought he would be jealous of someone with _less_ intelligence, but he was. John did not have to endure the agony of boredom, of a mind racing out of control, caving in on itself with no stimulation. John’s mind was quiet, able to offer medical insight when needed, and otherwise able to concern itself with small day-to-day matters like shopping and friends. Sherlock would never be able to survive like that, but he sometimes wished that he could. Just once, he wanted to turn his mind off and sit in silence. Drugs had offered that escape, or near it, but he no longer indulged in the habit.

 

Yes, Sherlock was jealous of John’s mind. He would never give up the intellect that had made him who he was, but he started to wonder if having a simple mind was as terrible as he had thought. He refocused on the landscape around him and sighed softly. He closed his eyes and leaned back, enjoying the sun as he dove into his mind palace.

oOo

John compares his mind to Sherlock, how stupid he seems next to Sherlock, how incompetent and how he misses all the important details.

 

John sat at the breakfast table and sipped his tea, skimming the paper. Mary had already left for work but today was John’s day off. He turned the page and a story caught his eye: two new murders and the police were at a loss. He half chuckled to himself; Sherlock would have been able to solve the case in minutes. The chuckle turned into a sigh at the thought of his dead friend. On so many occasions John found himself unconsciously comparing himself to Sherlock.

 

One: Sherlock’s intelligence. The man was a genius, able to spout on about crimes, science, or literature depending on what the situation called for. His knowledge was wide and varied; he was always coming up with an odd bit of information to tell John. His sagging bookcases probably contributed to a large amount of it, as well as reading of the internet. John wished he had the disciple to be as widely read as Sherlock; he usually stuck to the newspaper, the news, and the odd medical journal. Sherlock was able to connect seemingly unrelated events into a cohesive chain that was able to explain even the most baffling of crimes.

 

Two: Sherlock’s attention to detail. Sherlock could walk onto a crime scene, spin in a circle, and already have three times the information any of the New Scotland Yard had collected. He saw things that no other person would notice—or, if they did, would not be able to use the information usefully. Whether it was from judging a gait from a footprint, deciphering where the suspect had been from the mud scraped on a floorboard, or knowing exactly how to break a suspect in interrogation, Sherlock always knew what to do. He was rarely stumped and if he was, he would spend days doing research to ensure it never happened again. He honed his mind and skills to razor sharpness with a dedication John never could achieve. After spending so much time with Sherlock, John had learned better powers of observation, true, but he would never be able to keep up with Sherlock Holmes.

 

Three: Sherlock’s varied skills. John was sure that Sherlock would be able to learn anything he put his mind to, not matter how absurd. Once, Sherlock had taught himself how to play glasses filled with water, thinking it might be useful for infiltrating the talent show his case was leading towards. The skill was never used as another murder led Sherlock in a different direction, but he had spent an entire afternoon becoming proficient in the odd musical skill. John was aware that Sherlock had some sort of martial art skills although he had never seen Sherlock use them. His friend had always done his best to avoid hand-to-hand combat, leaving that aspect to John. Sherlock was amazing at the violin and could have easily published and sold his music, although he refused to. John’s skills lay in fighting and being a doctor; he was not good at picking up new skills as quickly as Sherlock could. He was often jealous of that, wanting to be able to keep up with his friend or learn something that would be an asset. He often felt that he had been more of a hindrance to Sherlock than a help.

 

Four: Sherlock’s friendship. Although Sherlock claimed to be a sociopath, John knew differently. Sociopath’s did not need friends but, over the time that Sherlock and John lived together, they had undeniably formed a friendship. Sherlock was a hard flatmate to have but John would not have traded him for anyone else. Sherlock may not know all the social graces that applied to a friend situation, but he did his best in his own way. John had always been jealous of Sherlock for that, even though it was a jealousy that made no sense. Well, maybe he was not jealous so much as he felt undeserving. What had John done that afforded him the effort Sherlock had put into living with him? Despite the heads in the fridge, the guns in the middle of the night, the never-ending violin music, Sherlock had always found a way to make it up to John. Sometimes he had done the shopping—which he hated—sometimes he had ordered and paid for dinner, sometimes he had given John a small present. Once, a new jumper, another time a piece of medical equipment for work, third a new book. Sherlock always had tried, while John wondered what more he could have done.

 

John realized that he was staring sightlessly ahead of him, tea long gone cold. He abruptly shook himself, closed the newspaper, and stood to reheat his tea. Being jealous of Sherlock was not going to get him anywhere. No matter how much he hoped, his friend was dead.


	48. Chapter 48

**A/N- Suggested by The Unknown.**

 

John pulled out his phone and brought up Sherlock’s number. _Do we need milk? – JW._ He hit send and started to put the phone away before he remembered and sent another text: _Check the pull date of the milk before you answer – JW._ John slipped the phone back into his pocket and was reaching for a jar of jam when his phone buzzed. Surprised that he had received an answer so quickly, John pulled his phone out again.

 

 _The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected,_ the text informed him. John closed his eyes in pain for a moment before reaching again for the jam. 

**_2 weeks later_ **

_Sherlock, Lestrade is over and he needs help on a case. Will you come? –JW_ John turned back to Lestrade and listened as the man explained the odd case of the man with no fingerprints. They discussed various hypotheses, but none seemed to make sense. There were faint traces of fingerprints found on the scene, but they could not be matched to any suspects. It was as if the main part of the fingerprint was just…erased.

 

While John mulled over the details he checked his phone for Sherlock’s answer. Again, the disconnected number message stared back at him. John gazed at the phone for a long time, prompting Greg to make a worried comment. Pulling himself out of the past John focused back on the mysterious case, missing his friend even more.

oOo

Sherlock typed away at his phone while his mind spun at a million miles an hour. So many motives Sherlock was trying to keep straight for so many suspects. _John, what is taking you so long? I asked you to come an hour ago. –SH_ Sherlock stabbed the sent button and turned his full concentration back on the problem at hand. He needed to get out of London without attraction. Sebastian Moran was the number one target on his list.

 

During his last stab at Moriarty’s network, the gunman had seen and recognized Sherlock. The lackey had a vendetta against Sherlock for the grief he had caused Moriarty and he was willing to go to any lengths to repay it. Sherlock felt like he had his own personal demon again, watching his every move and waiting. He was holed up at Molly’s again as he did not want Moran to know of the new house outside of London. Sherlock continued to pace the tiny flat, angrily pulling out his mobile to check for John’s text. _The number you are trying to reach has been blocked._ Sherlock stopped mid step, realizing suddenly the significance of his action.

 

He had texted John. John, the one person he could have no contact with. He had tried to _text_ John. Stupid stupid stupid! Granted, the number had been blocked thanks to Mycroft, but still. Especially now that Moran was on his tail Sherlock had to protect John. It was only a matter of time before the hit man realized that John could be used against Sherlock, the one thing the consulting detective had been trying to avoid. Seething, Sherlock dialed Mycroft’s number. He needed help. He would not allow John to be put in harms way again.


	49. Chapter 49

**A/N- Inspired by azebra117.**

Three days after Sherlock tried to text John, John’s life was once again in danger. John did not know it, of course, but Sherlock did. His discussion with Mycroft had been fruitful; he had easily been able to slip away from Molly’s flat and out of London. What he had not counted on, however, was that Sebastian Moran would not follow him.

 

No, the ex-soldier took the simpler route and went directly after John Watson. Sherlock had known that sooner or later it would come to this, but he had hoped to lure the man out of London and finish him. The sharpshooter was obviously smarter than Sherlock had given him credit for and Sherlock had given him quite a bit of credit. Moran had been a thorn in Sherlock’s side for a long time, constantly out of reach. Many of Sherlock’s efforts to bring down Moriarty’s web had been undermined by this man. It had not been until recently, however, that Moran knew whom he was fighting. Now that he did…Sherlock felt like Moriarty was breathing down his neck again, watching him dance.

 

Hours outside of London, Sherlock was holed up in a small motel room bent over his computer. He was on the phone with his brother discussing protection plans for John.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “John is as safe as he will be. I have one of my men stationed next door; you know that. The house is under surveillance. If anyone comes within 100 feet of the flat, I will be the first to know.”

 

“Mycroft, this is Sebastian Moran we are talking about. You know his history, sniper at that. I don’t trust—”

 

“Dear brother,” Mycroft interrupted, “He’s not going to kill Doctor Watson. If he wanted to do that, Watson would already be dead. If anything, the good doctor will be used as leverage against you, meaning that he would need to be alive.”

 

“Thanks for the comforting thought, Mycroft.”

 

“Since when do you care about comfort?”

 

Sherlock _hmphed_ at the comment and hung up, not deigning to answer. Sherlock knew that he would have to seriously consider the implications of the growing emotions that were taking over his body, but now was not the time.

 

He focused back on the computer as he hacked into Mycroft’s security cameras in and around John’s flat. As Mycroft had stated, though, nothing happened. As the hours dragged by Sherlock grew more and more restless. The third time he considered shooting the motel wall he decided to trust his instincts. He slipped the gun into the holster on his belt, picked up a few extra pieces of equipment, and called Irene to get the car ready. She was only a few blocks away, presumably shopping while they waited for further developments. Her protests at leaving died at the tone in Sherlock’s voice. She did not question if Mycroft had been included in this plan and Sherlock did not tell her otherwise. Within 15 minutes they were driving back to London, shaded windows hiding them from the world.

 

It was half past two in the morning when they pulled up a block from John’s flat. Sherlock had left his Belstaff coat at the motel and donned older baggier clothes, wanting to pass unnoticed. He slid out of the car and into the shadows as Irene left in the car to find a safe place to wait. Whether she alerted Mycroft to his little brother’s movements was her decision.

 

Slumping and stumbling like a homeless drunk, Sherlock slid along the wall till he reached the door that led to John’s building. It was open and he could hear footsteps climbing the flight of stairs inside the tall building. No tenant would leave the door open like this so…it was Moran and his men. Mycroft’s surveillance must be compromised; they would have to discuss it later. Whatever fates had delivered Sherlock here in time he did not care; he needed to protect John no matter the cost.

oOo

_Earlier that afternoon_

John gave Mary a long goodbye kiss and helped her load her trunk into the cab. She was going home to visit her family for the weekend, leaving John to a weekend of friends and drinks. Although he would miss her, John was looking forward to seeing Stamford, Lestrade, and the rest of his friends again. The cab drove and John went back to the silent flat. He turned crap telly on for background noise and called out for Chinese. He was not needed at the practice for the next few days and the boys were busy tonight, so he was staying in.

 

John’s evening was spent in comfortable silence with himself and the telly. He refused to let his thoughts turn to Sherlock the entire night and went to bed content and full. It was a bit earlier than John normally went to sleep so he stayed up for an hour reading a murder mystery Mary had bought him. Eyes finally tired, John lay the book down and turned off the bedroom light.

 

It was then, alone in the dark, that Sherlock invaded his mind, no longer held at bay. John closed his eyes against the familiar wave of pain that accompanied the thoughts. He and Sherlock, running after a suspect. Eating Chinese and laughing. Listening to the violin, soft and soothing. Making tea in the morning and reading the paper. Mending Sherlock’s various scrapes and bruises. Apologizing, so many apologies, to those Sherlock offended. Sharing looks with Lestrade. Keeping Sherlock and Anderson apart. Comforting Molly when Sherlock said something harsh. Finding body parts in the fridge. Watching Sherlock work on experiments. Sitting in silence, neither needing to speak.

 

The memories washed John far into the past, leaving all thoughts of Mary and his boy’s weekend behind. John did not know when he fell asleep, but it was with drying tear streaks on his face.


	50. Chapter 50

Sherlock caught up to the men moments before they broke into John’s flat. He did not wait for an explanation; he simply pulled out his gun and shot two of the cronies point blank. The time for mercy was long behind him. At the sound of the gun the third man, Sebastian Moran, whipped around and threw himself at Sherlock. The gun was dropped in the ensuing struggle as the two grappled for their lives. Sherlock could hear John’s shouts inside the flat; presumably he had been woken by the sounds of the struggle.

 

The two men teetered on the edge of the stairs before gravity played its role. Sherlock grimaced as they bounced down the stairs to the landing, trying to keep Moran between him and the hard floor. Unfortunately, the hit man was not knocked out by the fall. Sherlock felt hands close around his throat and the hot breath of Moran hissing by his ears. Something akin to fear slid through his veins like ice. Was this how he was going to die? Not at the hand of the psychopathic Moriarty, but a simple sharpshooter with a grudge? No. He had to protect John.

 

Sherlock employed one of the many martial arts moves he knew to flip the man off his chest. Moran crashed into the wall and lay still for a moment before rising like an enraged bull. This would not be an easy battle. Verbal taunts would be no use against a man like this, not that Sherlock had the breath to utter them.

 

The two traded punches, evenly matched, each landing blows but blocking most. Sherlock could hear John yelling into the phone a flight up, Lestrade most likely. Moran took advantage of his distraction to land a punch on Sherlock’s ribs. He felt something crack and an involuntary gasp of pain escaped his lips. He had to end this before Moran overpowered him and went after John. He hoped that John would not gain a sudden deluded sense of heroism and try to break up the fight. More than that, he hoped that John would not recognize Sherlock. He was not finished yet; he could not come home.

 

Sherlock’s fist connected to Moran’s nose and blood poured down his face, distracting the ex-soldier. He took a step back, trying to get his bearings and recollect himself. Sherlock did not give him a chance, pressing his short advantage. He pummeled the man relentlessly and felt Moran start to give. Blood splattered the ground and each other, making their skin slick. Sherlock delivered one more punch and Moran was down. He leaned a knee on the man’s chest and wrapped his hands around Moran’s neck. Sherlock would not wait for the police to deal with this man; he could not risk the chance that Moran would escape or worm free. He heared sirens outside drawing closer and tightened his hold. He needed to escape before Lestrade saw him.

 

He hoped that Irene had chosen the prudent route and called Mycroft when he went to investigate John’s flat, because he was in sore need of his brother’s help to escape. Moran’s face started turning blue and his struggles lessened. Sherlock estimated that only a few more seconds of pressure would be needed. As he watched Moran’s eyes finally go dark he felt a burning sensation in his side. He rocked back from the dead man and looked down to see a knife piercing his skin, leaking ruby red blood.

oOo

John awoke and for a moment wondered why. He then heard gunshots in the hall and shoved off the covers, grabbing for the gun he kept in his nightstand. When he got to the door he found two men dead and another pair fighting by the stairs. One was obviously an ex-military man John knew he had seen him before. He could not match a name to the face, but he remembered the stories of the marksman from the army. The other man seemed to be homeless, dressed in dirty baggy clothes. There was something about him that struck John as familiar, but he could not get a good look at the face.

 

There was nothing he could do to break up the fight in front of him so he grabbed his mobile and called Lestrade. “Lestrade? It’s an emergency. You might want to call 999 as well.”

 

Lestrade’s voice was sharp with no trace of the sleepiness that normally outlined his voice during the night shift. “What’s going on? Are you ok?”

 

“I am for now, but I’m not sure what’s happening. There are two men lying dead outside my flat and two others fighting on the stairs.”

 

He heard Lestrade yelling to men in the background and the bang of doors as they ran to the car. “All right, we are on our way. John, do yourself a favor and head back inside your flat and _lock the door_. No hero acts.”

 

John hung up the phone without answering Lestrade’s request. While he had been talking the two men had fallen down the flight of stairs and the homeless man now appeared to be strangling the other. John took a step towards them despite Lestrade’s request, his moral obligation not allowing him to stand by. The choice was made for him, however, as the homeless man fell back from the dead man. John saw blood pour to the floor as the man pulled a knife from his side.

 

John started forward again in concern as he heard sirens and car doors slam outside. The homeless man looked down the stairs with panic at the noise. Pressing a hand to the wound he stumbled away, blonde curls spotted red with blood. John called out, but the man was gone. Again John got the nagging sense of familiarity, although why a homeless man would raise such a feeling he did not know.

 

There were boot steps on the stairs and, rather than the expected Lestrade, there were men in suits and glasses. Ignoring John’s exclamations they frog marched him outside and into one of the waiting police cars. There he found Lestrade who made a consoling gesture to John. “Okay?”

 

John looked out the window at the swarm of men. “What’s going on?”

 

“Mycroft’s doing. He must have security cameras on your flat and sent his men. They arrived just before us and kept us out. Frankly I trust them more than our team. Now, what on earth happened?”

 

Calming himself, John launched into his story, ignoring the nagging sensation in the back of his mind that something was not right.

oOo

In the manor outside of London, Sherlock sat in stoic silence while one of Mycroft’s men tended to his side. Irene had immediately called Mycroft and alerted him to the breach in the security system. As Mycroft’s private men arrived Irene had the car pulled in front of the building that held John’s flat. When Sherlock stumbled out dripping blood she asked no questions, but ferried him a safe distance away to bind his wound until they reached the mansion.

 

Now Sherlock’s mind was not on his wound or cracked rib, but on John. Even if it had only been for a few seconds, he had seen John again. He had not expected the rush of emotions that had surged through his body. Now that Moran was eliminated Sherlock simply had to wait and make sure no other man took his place. After three years of hunting down Moriarty’s web, Sherlock finally had hope that his exile was at an end.


	51. Chapter 51

_Four weeks later_

Sherlock stood outside 221B Baker Street and for the first time in his life did not know what to do. It had been three years since he had thrown himself off the roof of Saint Barts. Three years of watching John suffer without him. Three years of new relationships with Molly, Irene, and Mycroft. Three years of hunting down Moriarty’s network. Three years of keeping John safe. Three years that had all led to this moment.

The wound in Sherlock’s side was still healing and his rib hurt with every breath, but he could wait no longer. No one else had stood up to take Moran’s place and the last of Moriarty’s network was falling to pieces across the globe. After a long discussion with Mycroft his brother had finally agreed that it was safe for Sherlock to go home.

Sherlock now stood outside of his and John’s old flat and felt something akin to nervousness slide over his skin. He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

oOo

John and Mary had settled back into their routine quickly despite the killers who had showed up almost a month before. Mary had sworn that she was never leaving John alone again and the two had shared a shaky laugh over the subject. Mycroft’s men had done their job well that night and a few hours after meeting Lestrade John had been back in his old bed, albeit with a guard stationed outside the flat for the next week to ensure his safety.

Still, as the weeks of peace slid by the two relaxed and continued with their lives. John kept promising Mrs. Hudson that he would stop by and tell her the entire story and today, free from the practice or any other obligations, he was paying her a visit. Mrs. Hudson was of course horrified by John’s story, but he assured her of his and Mary’s continuing safety. Their empty teacups stood sentinel to their slowing conversation and finally John said his goodbyes. Before he left, though, he let himself into his and Sherlock’s old flat. It had become a habit whenever he saw Mrs. Hudson, a reliving of another life. The 17 steps creaked beneath his feet and he pushed the door open softly.

The flat looked like it always did, clean and barely changed even after three years. John wandered over to the window where Sherlock had so often played his violin and looked out at the empty street below. It was a familiar and comforting view despite the sadness that now tainted it. John heard footsteps on the stairs, calling to mind Sherlock’s old tread. He turned, expecting to see Mrs. Hudson’s gray head, but instead saw the dark curls and tall frame of the man he knew to be dead.

oOo

Sherlock climbed the stairs to 221B slowly. He had seen John’s shadowy figure through the door leave Mrs. Hudson’s and had been about to slip away when he saw John head up to their flat. Figuring that there would be no better time to reveal himself than now, Sherlock had finally entered.

He hesitated at the top of the stairs for a moment and took a deep breath before pushing the door to the flat all the way open. John was standing by the window and turned as he entered. For the first time in three years, John and Sherlock looked at each other eye to eye. The two men stared and Sherlock felt curiously empty. He was an expert at repressing emotion but this…this was a different feeling. It was like the world had simply frozen, waiting for movement to start again. Sherlock opened his mouth to say…what? John beat him to it.

oOo

John felt a dull sense of sadness at the sight of Sherlock standing in the flat. This must have been the last straw; he was delusional and seeing ghosts. He took a deep breath and continued to stare. No, he knew he was himself. He was not lost in the past as his memories so often betrayed him. He remembered watching Sherlock fall, remembered the blood staining his hair and face.

This Sherlock was not a figment of his imagination. The dead man standing in front of him was thinner than the Sherlock John remembered. This Sherlock’s curls were longer and wild, not tamed to perfect beauty. Although this Sherlock stood tall and straight as he used to, he seemed to be favor his side slightly. His face was as blank as always, cheekbones jutting out at sharp angles.

Sherlock Holmes was not dead. His best friend was alive. The past three years John had suffered for nothing. The thought filled him sudden irrational anger. How could Sherlock do this to him? The man in question opened his mouth to speak, but John did not give him a chance.

“You bastard!” John took the few steps forward needed to bring him to Sherlock, drew back his arm, and punched him in the face. The tall man folded to the ground. “Three bloody years you heartless bastard! Three years…” John felt tears sliding unbidden down his face and he sat heavily on the floor next to his friend, awash with emotions.

oOo

Being punched in the face was not what Sherlock had been expecting. Angry words, yes. Tears, yes. Hateful messages, yes. Violence, no. He sat up slowly and groaned. His side wound and ribs were piling pain signals into his brain. Sherlock breathed slowly and tried to minimize his movements till the pain abated. He looked at John next to him and gave his customary half smirk. “I guess I deserved that.”

John gave him a shaky smile, obviously fighting a variety of emotions. “You deserve a lot worse than that, even for a dead man.”

The two sat in silence for moment before Sherlock offered, “Want a drink?”

“Yes, please. You might want to give me the whole bottle; I think I’m going to need it.”

Sherlock hauled himself up and grimaced in pain, but made it to the kitchen and checked the cabinets until he found a dusty bottle. He poured two glasses and handed one to John who downed it immediately. Sherlock refilled the glass without question and downed his own. The two flatmates moved to the living room and Sherlock sank into his old black and chrome chair. It was just as comfortable as he remembered. John held onto the arms of his chair like he was afraid it would suddenly dump him off of it. “What did you do to your side?” he finally asked.

“Always the doctor, John. You may remember an incident a few weeks ago that resulted in two dead men outside your door and two others fighting in the hall?”

John jerked like he had been electrocuted. “You weren’t the homeless guy, were you?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”

“I thought there was something familiar about him and I couldn’t shake the feeling. You were dead though, so…I ignored it.”

“As ever you see, but do not observe.” The criticism was delivered with no malice, however, and Sherlock smiled to soften the comment. This was what he had been fighting to protect, this perfect comfort with John in their old home. “I won the fight, but it ended with a cracked left rib and a stab wound to my side, both of which are healing.”

John nodded and seemed at a loss for words. He finally threw himself into a long rambling sentence. “I’ve got a girlfriend, Mary. We are living together. After you…fell, I couldn’t stay here—”

“I know, John.” Sherlock interjected. “I know everything that has been happening to you. I’ve been watching and protecting you for the past three years.”

“ _Everything_?” John’s ears suddenly went pink and Sherlock tilted his head, brows furrowed. Of all the words to pick up on in that sentence, that is what John focused on?

“If you mean your amorous activities with Mary, don’t worry. We wanted to keep you safe, not spy on your entire life.” Sherlock smirked slightly.

“We?” John did not miss the group implied.

Just Mycroft, Molly, and Irene.”

“Molly knew? Molly _knew_ and I didn’t?” Blood started rushing to John’s face and Sherlock decided it would be prudent to move to the window, out of reach of John’s fist.

“It was for your own safety, John. I have a long story to tell you and a lot of apologies to make.”

John made an effort to calm himself and gave a shaky laugh. “I never thought I’d hear you say you had to apologize.”

Sherlock turned back with a smile. “We’ve both changed, John.”

The smaller man stood and walked over to Sherlock. Without asking permission, although he knew Sherlock was not fond of contact, John wrapped his arms tightly around his friend. Sherlock was nonplussed for a moment before awkwardly hugging John back. This was not a social convention he liked to take part in, but he owed it to John. Perhaps...today...it was not so bad.

“I missed you,” his flatmate mumbled into his shirt.

Sherlock felt a smile slide across his features and did not bother to wipe it away. “I missed you too, John. I really honestly missed you.”

“Thank you.” Whether John was thanking Sherlock for admitting that he had felt an emotion or for coming back from the grave, the consulting detective did not care. As the two stood framed by the window, unmoving, Sherlock finally felt at peace. There would be stories for later, explanations, apologies, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson to see…there were three years worth of words for the two flatmates. For now, though, Sherlock had finally come home.

oOo

Here, though the world explode, these two survive,

And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

 _221B by Vincent Starrett_  


End file.
